Phantom:A Romantic's Retelling
by Soignante
Summary: Completely complete. A retelling of the Phantom's story designed to satisfy the most tender, Romantic heart. EC, novellength.
1. Not the Child You Were Expecting

Slanting rays of evening sunlight, delicately tinged with orange, illuminated the picture window and cast a soft glow over the room. After hours of difficult labor, the Duchess had finally given birth. The room was silent; there were no squalling cries to announce her little bundle of joy. The English midwife, Ellen, stood at the foot of the bed, toweling the child clean, her forehead wrinkled in an undeniable expression of concern and disgust.

"I am sorry my Lady, but your son is…is…is stillborn," she stammered, looking carefully away from both mother and child.

Before the Lady could burst into tears, though, a healthy wail proved the midwife wrong. Still, she did not hand the child to his mother.

"Let me see him, Ellen! Give me my baby." The Duchess Margot de Valliere was a woman of power, a woman used to being obeyed promptly. The midwife's hesitation infuriated her.

"What is _wrong _with you, woman?" she snapped, holding out her hands. "I can hear that he lives."

Ellen shook her head slowly. The Duchess noticed that the normally nurturing midwife held the baby out and away from her body. Ellen's next words froze her blood in her veins.

"I don't think you should see him, Madame. He is…" she paused, forcing herself to look at the squirming baby, "…ill made. I have never seen a child in such a condition survive."

The baby's lusty wails didn't sound like those of a dying child. The Duchess held firm in her demand. "Let me see him, Ellen, or you will discover yourself without a station in my duchy." Her livelihood threatened, Ellen handed the baby to his mother, and watched her face crumple into itself. Dutifully, the Duchess put the child to her breast, staring at the ceiling, away from its terrible face.

The baby's face was mottled china-white and blood-red. The flesh was lumpy and twisted. Instead of a nose, a thin flap of skin covered the nasal passages. Had her husband not been in England on a mission of diplomacy, he would have ordered the wretched thing disposed of. The Duchess was not a kind woman, but it was not in her nature to kill infants.

"Ellen, here are my orders. Tell everyone the child was stillborn. Find a good nurse who will care for this…this. Tell her that she will be well compensated, but that her job and the child _will_ remain a secret. You know many nurses, Ellen. I'm sure you can find someone. Acquire goat's milk, or whatever we can feed it until it can eat solid food. Move all of the things out of the nursery and into the back wing of the house, above the servant's quarters. We'll keep it there until it is old enough to survive on its own."

The baby had finished nursing and slept peacefully. The Duchess made a gesture for Ellen to take him away. Gingerly, Ellen lifted the baby and placed him in his bassinet with a spine-wracking shudder.

Once mother and child were asleep, Ellen passed on the orders to the servants and retrieved her horse from the stables. The Duchess's orders seemed just to her - many noblewomen would simply have ordered the child cast into a river. Still, it would not be easy to find a nursemaid. She scoured her mind. Who would nurse such a horror? Even for a good salary and a sure future, most would be repulsed by the creature.

Hannah was home, cooking a stew and humming softly to herself. Despite her advanced age, her voice was still smooth, low and sweet. It was a pleasure to stand outside her door and listen, but Ellen could not forget the urgency of her mission. The Duchess would only suffer the presence of the deformed little thing for so long. She tapped at the door, and let herself in.

"You should give an old woman time, girl. What if I had been in my pettis?" growled Hannah, but a smile deepened the creases in her homely face. She did love visitors, even ones that came at the glimmering of twilight.

"Good evening, Hannah," Ellen murmured apologetically.

Hannah's bleared vision was good enough to see the worry etched across the younger woman's face. "What is it, child. Out with it, or I shan't serve you any tea."

"No time for tea." Ellen cleared her throat. "I've come to offer a proposition to you. "

"A proposition, you say?" Hannah was amused. Who came to seventy-year-old women with propositions? It was absurd.

Ellen cleared her throat in annoyance at the flippant tone. "From the Duchess."

Silence greeted the remark. Nobility did not trouble themselves with the peasantry unless there was hard and unpleasant work to be done. _I am far too old for such things!_ thought Hannah. Outwardly she only nodded. "What does she want?"

"She wants a baby nurse. A good one. But under some very strange conditions." Ellen's voice faltered, as the spectacle of the child's face flashed in her mind.

"And what are these conditions? I'm delighted for the Lady, that her child was born healthy and all that congratulatory mess, but I'm hardly a fitting nursemaid for nobility. If you take much longer my stew will burn, and I haven't money for more ingredients. All I have goes to those people who care for my poor boy."

Hannah's mention of her feeble son was the cue Ellen had been waiting for. "This will fix that, Hannah. She wants to offer you a position as nursemaid for twenty-five thousand a year. The conditions are that you keep the baby alive and well, tell no one that he lives, and keep him out of her sight."

Hannah's eyes grew round and her mouth dropped open. Twenty-five thousand a year would feed, clothe, and house her entire family - all five living generations! But the conditions…how strange that a mother would want her child kept secret and hidden even from her own eyes.

"There's something you're not telling me, child. What's wrong with the boy? Is he sickly?" her voice dropped to a whisper, "Is he a bastard?"

Ellen shook her head. "No. He's…quite healthy…as far as we can tell. And he is the Duke's, to a certainty," She swallowed hard, as the image of the newborn's face floated hideously in her mind. "But he's deformed, Hannah. I've never seen anything to beat it, and I've seen a lot."

She described the baby, taking care to emphasize his mother's coldness. Hannah listened, her faded eyes never leaving the younger woman's, her wrinkled face showing no emotion. Deep in her heart the buds of pity bloomed for this tiny child, new to the world and already outcast. Her own son was far from perfect, but he had at least always enjoyed his mother's love. She would be nursemaid to this baby, even if the money turned out to be an exaggeration on Ellen's part. She'd do it for room, board, and enough money to pay for her son's care.

"Ellen, that's the saddest thing I've ever heard. I think you're trying to break an old woman's heart. I'll come with you, see the babe, and talk with his mother. If the position suits me, and she agrees to _my_ conditions, I'll do it."

The midwife sat back and sighed with relief. She wouldn't be blackballed from her trade. Hannah would take the position; it was evident in her tone. The baby would have the best care any child could have, regardless of his face. Hannah was getting so blind she probably wouldn't even be able to see it.

Relieved, Ellen had a generous helping of the stew and put the rest in the pig trough. Then she mounted her horse and led Hannah on her slow old mare back to the Duchess's mansion.

The old woman in her bedraggled peasant's clothing looked wildly out of place walking down the halls with marble pillars and parquet floors. She didn't seem to care, though, and walked with her accustomed hobbledy gait. When Ellen opened the door of the birthing room, she hobbled right on in and bent over the bassinet. After a brief inspection, she looked up to the where the Duchess lay sleeping and heaved a sigh.

"Poor woman. Poor baby. It seems a shame anyone should make good off of this, but that's that."

The baby started to mewl, and she tenderly lifted it in her arms and cradled it, humming a sweet song. Ellen looked on, seeing the old woman do easily what she could not bring herself to do at all.

Yes. Hannah was a good choice.


	2. The Mask

Hannah proved to be a steadfast and good nurse. Old as she was, she rarely became ill, and never seriously so. The baby was a sweet thing and gave her little trouble. His disposition was serious and quiet; she frequently found him lying silently in his crib, staring solemnly out through the bars with an unnatural intelligence gleaming in his deep gold-and-green eyes. Hannah was not romantically-minded in the least, but those eyes called up thoughts of secrets and old magic. They gave the thin, deformed child his only beauty.

Hannah lifted him from the crib one day and gazed deeply into his eyes, ignoring the rest of his face. After a moment, the wriggly six-month-old smiled and grabbed her nose.

"Little scamp!" she exclaimed, laughing. She very gently shook him from side to side, "You let go of old Hannah's nose, you little…" The tiny, gentle hand moved from her nose to her lips. Her voice trailed off and she hugged the child to her withered bosom. "Poor little thing…" she whispered.

Six months had passed and his mother had not yet visited the nursery. No name had ever been given to the baby. It was this thought that now brought sorrow to the kindly woman's heart and tears to her eyes. She set the baby on the ground and watched as he moved from a rocking motion to a crawl, moving slowly but determinedly towards the faded wooden toys Hannah had brought him from her home. They had belonged to her children, their children, and their children's children. She figured that they would be good enough for the little Valliere boy.

He played with them for a little while, and she noticed how strong and sure his movements were for such a little baby. "If that woman will not give you a name, I will." She scooped him up off the floor and kissed his ruined forehead. "I name you Erik. It was my father's name – it means 'ever-powerful'. It will give you strength…" Erik stared intently at her. She could have sworn the baby understood every word she was saying. "…and you will need all of _that_ you can get."

Under Hannah's tender ministrations, Erik grew healthy and strong. He spoke at the age of eight months, walked barely two months later, and suddenly Hannah found she had her hands full. The inquisitive, intelligent toddler dashed everywhere and got into everything. She could not recall any of her grandchildren or children being so clever at such a young age. Soon, it was clear that he would need diversions beyond what the empty nursery could offer. She began to teach him his alphabet, his colors, and his numbers. He would learn them and look up at her, saying "More? More!" in his strident little baby-voice.

It seemed that nothing would satisfy his insatiable need to learn until the day she reached her wits end and began singing to him in the hopes he would be distracted for a little while.

"_Fais dodo, Colas mon p'tit frère  
Fais dodo, t'auras du lolo  
Maman est en haut  
Qui fait des gateauxt."_

The sixteen-month-old toddler was staring at her with wide eyes. When she paused for breath, he opened his mouth and repeated back to her what she had just sung. The words were a little garbled, but the tune was perfect.

"Mon dieu…" she murmured, staring at him in blank wonder.

In that moment, Hannah ceased to pity her charge and learned to love him. After putting Erik down for his nap, Hannah gathered her skirts and her courage and marched dutifully down to the Duchess's sitting room. Margot was entertaining two Ladies from a neighboring duchy. She cast an annoyed glance at the old nursemaid.

"Well, what is it?"

Hannah curtsied to the ladies and murmured, "It is that small issue in the other wing, Madame."

"Can it not wait?" Margot looked pointedly at her guests.

"Yes, I suppose it can, Madame. It is not really _that_ important." Hannah curtsied and retreated. She was glad the woman had not shown any interest. It seemed far better to her that Erik's great gift remain a secret.

As Erik grew, his genius blossomed along with him. Hannah did her best, but rumors of a little demon living in the closed-off wing of the house. Hannah took care that Erik should not learn of these cruel comments – or their source. As Erik grew older, she put a ban on any reflective surfaces, even polished cutlery was outlawed from the nursery. The other servants would bring their food and other supplies to the far door at the back wing of the house and leave them, sneaking peeks whenever they could, then dash away in fear. They respected the old woman, but whispered that she must have poor eyesight indeed to stay with such a little horror.

In truth, Hannah could see well enough to note the marked and worsening deformities of her young charge's face. For the first two years she hoped, but by his third year she had accepted that his hair would never grow in anything other than sparse, scraggly, anemic strands. Instead of frightening her, it only saddened her. She knew this boy, and knew how unwarranted any fear of him was. If only her feeble son's normal face could have contained a portion of this child's mind and spirit!

In the Spring of Erik's fourth year, The Duchess de Valliere visited the nursery for the first time. The servants had begun to complain that the demon-child would sometimes appear running through the halls. They were sure he would curse them with the evil eyes. To prevent a staff mutiny, she brought her son a 'gift'.

Hannah sat in her rocking chair and watched wordlessly. It was not her place to interfere.

"Come here," Hannah did not move, so Erik guessed that the command was addressed to him. He stood before her, staring up at her flowing dress, delicate ringlets, and pretty face. She smelled like lavender. To the small boy who had seen nothing but old women and raw-boned servant women all his life, she seemed a faerie-queen.

Margot extended her thin, white hand which held a folded piece of white silk. "Take it," she urged, bracing herself for the inevitable moment when her hideous offspring's flesh would brush hers. She shivered in revulsion and then spoke.

"Never appear before me, or any servant of this house, without this. I will not suffer the sight, nor would I ask my servants to do so." She swept away, leaving the scent of lavender behind.

Four-year old Erik stared after her for a few seconds, before bursting into tears. He had read many stories, and Hannah had told him many more. In all the stories, mothers loved their sons, no matter what. From what he had been told, that pretty Lady was his mother, but he had seen no hint of love in her face. She had even told him why – he was too ugly to be loved. Hannah tried to console him, but from that moment forth he would not remove the mask, even for her.


	3. Alone

As Erik grew older, and so did his nurse. Spry as she was, Hannah was in her mid-seventies and her heart had begun to fail. As would any good son, little Erik did his best to make her last days comfortable. He read to her, talked with her, and -most effectively- sang to her. His pure, flutelike voice had always remained their secret. Hannah often would laugh and joke that an angel had flown down his throat one day and gotten stuck. Now, as she spent more and more of her time confined to her four-poster bed, it became her one joy.

"Erik, do you know what is happening to me?" she asked quietly, after he'd finished reading one of her favorite stories.

"You are sick. You need to rest. Would you like more tea?" He was always quiet and polite in manner. Having never romped with children his age, he'd never learned to be a child.

"I'm dying, Erik. I don't think I will live much longer." He only stared at her, blinking slowly, his hand motionless on the handle of the teapot. "When I have died, you must tell your mother what has happened."

"You cannot die." Erik's voice was flat. It was a command, not a plea.

Hannah laughed as hard as her failing heart would allow. "It is not something I can do anything about, child."

"Who will care for me when you are gone?"

"You'll be fine, I think. But I'll warn you – wear that mask your mother gave you until you grow out of it, then get yourself another."

The boy reached up and touched the silk that draped his face from forehead to jaw, leaving only his lips and chin visible. "Why, Hannah? Because the servants think I am evil?"

"Because you don't look like other people, and other people aren't likely to understand that."

"What do I look like?" His insatiable curiosity forced the question; he had tried to discover the truth for himself, but Hannah had outfoxed him every time.

"Never you mind, child." Hannah patted his cheek softly. "You don't need a beautiful face. You have a fine mind and only Mary and the Saints could have gifted you with such a voice. So just never you mind what you look like."

In the middle of his seventh year, six months later, Erik brought in their breakfast tureen from the hall. Hannah had not called him to bring her dressing gown and slippers yet and he was loath to disturb her rest. He dished out portions of oatmeal for each of them and got cups of water from their pump. He carefully set up a tray and carried it into Hannah's bedroom. She lay quietly on the bed with the covers pulled tightly under her chin.

"Hannah, wake up. I have brought your breakfast." He waited, then gently patted her shoulder. "Hannah? They remembered the treacle this time." He waited a little while longer. Fear nosed its way into his heart. "Hannah." He shook the old woman, trying to get her to wake, but she did not move at all. _She's dead._ He thought. His mind, normally keen, went blank. "She's dead," he whispered, and dissolved into tears.

When he had finished weeping over her, he did something he had never dared to do in all seven years of his existence. He walked alone through the great double doors that separated "his" wing of the house from everything else.

A servant saw the child wandering through the halls and dropped the load of laundry she was carrying as she swiftly made the sign of the evil eye to protect herself against him. He simply walked over to her and asked, "Where's the Duchess? My nurse has died."

The terrified woman pointed down the hall and gave him stammering directions to the Lady's sitting room. Erik stared at her for a moment, cataloguing in his perfect memory the way fear made the servant pliant, biddable. After putting this knowledge away for future use, he walked sedately to his mother's sitting room and opened the door.

She was sitting on a divan, reading a thick book. He recognized the title as one of the very few that Hannah had forbidden him. Those books were not for little boys, she had said. Under her breath she had murmured, "They aren't for fine ladies, either." After a moment, the lovely woman looked up, starting slightly at the unexpected sight of her offspring.

"What are _you_ doing _here_?" she cried, setting her book down and swiftly standing to tower over her son. "Get back to your rooms, thing!"

Erik stood his ground. His news was important; it was critical that his good nurse receive a prompt and respectful burial. His mother's cruelly flashing eyes were breaking his fragile world into little pieces. Some small, naive part of him had foolishly hoped that his mother would finally act like one and comfort him in this worst of times.

"Mother," he began weakly, "Hannah has died, and I'm frightened."

"Don't _ever _call me that," she hissed. Then, his announcement registered. "Died? What have you done to her?" the accusation rang in the air.

Erik looked at his feet, ashamed that he had not been able to save the old woman. "I read to her, I talked to her, I sang to her, but she was so sick and tired…she said it was time for her to go. When I took her breakfast in this morning…I guess she had gone." This said, he reached up and took off his mask. "Kiss me, please, I'm sad."

It was the most childlike thing he had done in a long time. Erik lifted his face and closed his eyes, truly expecting a kiss.

The slap that sent him whirling to the floor taught him a new lesson, one Hannah had never had the heart to teach. He was alone in the world now. There was no one left he could trust, no one who cared whether he lived or died.

His 'mother' leaned over him and hissed, "Put your mask on!" And then she was sweeping out of the room, calling for servants and hurrying to the back wing.

Erik lay sprawled on the floor for a moment – it seemed like a safe place. His face had never had full sensation in the twisted skin of his cheeks, so the slap barely stung. His head was pounding from the force of the blow and from the bubbling thoughts that sunk nasty claws into his heart. He wanted to cry, but denied himself that luxury. He understood now that he was on his own, and that he would have to be very careful from now on.

There was no way he could have known that his mother was already plotting to get rid of her burdensome secret. As long as Nurse Hannah had seen to the boy, there was no need to worry about word of him getting out. As of this morning, that was changed. She had her reputation to look after. The boy couldn't stay in the house; the servants would eventually talk, and the secret would destroy her family name. She had born no more children over the years, but that didn't mean there would not be any more when her husband returned from his diplomatic mission.

The duchess found the answer she sought in the gossip of the servants. A traveling circus was in town, and the circus had a freak show. It wasn't the best arrangement she could imagine, but it was expedient and it was certain to get the little monster out of her life and away from her precious name, forever. Barely an hour later, she summoned him to the dining room, signaling that he should sit across from her and eat.

Erik hesitated for a moment, unsure of what he should do. He had never been allowed to eat even with the servants before. It seemed suspect that his mother should invite him to dine with her so soon after knocking him to the ground. More than anything else, he wanted to slink back to his rooms and continue reading his battered old volume on Roman history. The Duchess's angry glower made his mind up for him. He took a seat and tried his best to eat with good manners.

As dessert was served, his mother finally spoke. "You will be leaving this house tonight. I will take you to a place where they will give you a chance to earn your keep."

Her tone was cold, distant. It grated on Erik's ears and clanged discordantly in his mind. This was not a mother's voice, and he didn't trust her to take him anywhere. But what choice did he have? When she motioned for him to follow, he obediently marched behind.


	4. Everyone Profits

The fair grounds were choked with pressing, dirty crowds, strong smells, and loud noises. To a small child who had never been outside his home before, it was entirely overwhelming. To a small child who was also a budding artist and a lover of all things ethereal, it was intolerable. He knew what a fair was, though, from books he had read. Like any other little boy his age, he was entranced by the shouting vendors and their colorful displays. Everywhere he looked there were people of all ages playing games of chance. Though they rarely seemed to win, they were ever-eager to spend another coin trying.

The strange sights and sounds passed behind them. At the edge of the thick crowd, Erik saw a little girl with a huge tray of pastries in her hands. He watched several people buy her wares, though she did not shout like the other vendors. She looked up from her tray and her black eyes caught his for a moment before he was jerked along and the crowd closed between them. His mother strode purposefully towards the back of the fairgrounds, not slowing for anything. Her steps only slowed as they approached a large tent behind the exotic animal show. The faded sign proclaimed, "**FREAKS! FREAKS! FREAKS!" **in red and gold letteringThere were color paintings of women with beards, impossibly fat men, and strange animals. Instead of trying to enter through the lines out front, his mother grabbed his hand and dragged him around back, where a travelling wagon stood in the dark. A sloppy, stinking man lounged outside the wagon, smoking a nasty smelling cigar and sipping from a huge bottle. He leered at the attractive and well dressed woman as she approached, no doubt thinking how he could fleece her.

Having committed herself to this course of action, Margot approached the man boldly.

"I believe I have a deal you will be interested in." Her voice was cultured and refined, which had the effect of making him put out his cigar and put down his bottle.

The nasty man offered a dirty hand, thought better of it, wiped the hand on an even dirtier handkerchief, and then offered it again.

"Name of Herroux," he grunted. The hand was ignored, so he thrust it in the front of his stained, threadbare dress coat. "You said you got a deal. What is it?"

She pushed the trembling boy forward, and pulled the white mask off his face. Erik threw his hands up, trying in vain to hide his disfigurement. It was too little, too late. Herroux had seen enough to pique his curiosity. He reached down with and roughly yanked the small hands away, revealing the death-masque beneath. The Duchess continued as though nothing was happening.

"It's this. The boy's a burden to me, and I haven't anything else to do with him. I figure you can pay me down for him now, and then make a profit off him for years. You make me an offer, and we'll see."

Herroux could hear money clinking in his pockets already. A face like that would draw customers far and wide. His beady eyes appraised the milk-white skin and erect bearing of the woman before him. She was obviously wealthy, possibly quite powerful as well. She wanted to be rid of the boy, not to make a profit. Any financial exchange would be purely symbolic.

He nodded. "It does look like something I could use. How's a hundred sound? I ain't got more'n that, but it'd be a real pity for you to have to leave out with the same baggage you come in with."

Margot cast him a bored glance and nodded dismissively. The Duchess knew he was trying to get out for a ridiculously small amount of money, but she also knew that the largest sum this man had to offer wouldn't equal the amount she'd make from her smallest holdings in a week.

She nodded her consent. "The less said of this deal, the better. No one will ask, but if they do, you found him wandering on the road. Understand?"

Herroux harrumphed and lumbered into his wagon. He returned soon after, the hundred wadded up in his hand. In exchange for the moist bills, Margot thrust the boy's hand into Herroux's.

"Hold onto him now. He's a smart one, and might run." With that she spun on her heel and left. On her way out, she bought a piece of pastry from a little girl with a tray and ate it with a light heart and a clean conscience. After all, she hadn't killed the boy at birth as many women might have done, she had paid for his care for seven years as few fine ladies would have, and now she'd put him in the way of earning his own keep. She left the fair and never spared another thought to the child she'd left behind.

Erik, on the other hand, knew his troubles had just begun. Herroux wasn't holding his hand so much as he was crushing it. The big man said not a word to the child, but dragged him roughly into the wagon where he thrust him to his knees on the gritty floor of a stinking sty of a bedroom.

"Move from that spot and I'll beat the life out of you." Erik sat on the sticky floor and hugged his knees, refusing to look up at his captor. A hairy hand grabbed his chin and turned his face up. "You hear me, you ugly waste of rat-crap? I'll make you wish you was never born!"

_You're too late for that, _thought Erik, casting his gaze to the floor. He listened to Herroux's heavy footsteps receding in the distance. His mother was right; if he could have run, he would have, but there were no windows, and his seven year old strength was not enough to break down the door. He thought of his kind old Hannah dying peacefully, and ardently wished he had gone with her. He curled back over his knees and pressed his hands over his eyes, shutting out the dark and some of the stink.


	5. A New Master

The lesson his mother's slap had taught him so succinctly that morning settled like an iron weight in his childish spirit. If he was to keep from being broken by whatever was in store for him, he would have to remember that lesson, even cherish it. He equated Herroux to the evil ogres and giants in the stories Hannah had told him. The heroes of those stories were always stalwart and brave. They never caved in before their tormentors. Erik swore to himself that, no matter what, Herroux would never see him cry. OF course, Erik didn't know what kind of man Herroux really was.

Time meant little in the dark, stinking room that imprisoned him. He heard the sounds of the fair gradually die away to the sounds of fair groundskeepers cleaning up the day's overflow of refuse, grumbling about the way 'people just couldn't throw a piece of trash in a barrel these days'. He heard animals being put up for the night, and the laughter of fair workers as they ate their evening meal and drank their evening beer. Eventually, quiet descended. Sooner or later, his captor would return…but there was nothing he could do about that. When heavy boot-steps pounded into the wagon, Erik hugged his knees more tightly, and prayed the horrid man would not notice that he had moved.

The door banged open. Torchlight flickered on the walls, illuminating Herroux's monstrous silhouette. The burly man reached out and grabbed him, hefting Erik to his feet by the collar of his shirt. This time, Erik's little wrist was squeezed painfully as Herroux pulled him out of the wagon and into the freak-tent through a flap in the back.

The heavy smell of some animal emanated from a large cage set in the middle of the room. The floor of the cage was packed with mangled straw. There was a bowl of water, a plate with some unidentifiable scraps of food on it, and a bucket. Erik winced, guessing what the bucket was for. The mansion's privies had been kept scrupulously clean, even if they were cold and drafty..

Herroux shoved the child through an iron door with a satisfied chuckle. He slammed the cage door and padlocked it. There was no way he would let this treasure escape.

"Welcome home. You can thank the bear that died last month for this nice home. Don't make noise. Don't speak 'less you're spoken to -hell, don't speak unless I _tell_ you to-, and do what you're told. Do all that and maybe I won't have to smack you around too much." He pointed to a wall where a sinister looking whip hung coiled. "If you can't do what you're told, then that's," he exaggerated his pointing motion, "for you." More low chuckles followed this introduction. "You better make me money, boy, after what I laid out for you." Relief washed over the boy when his captor exited the tent, leaving him in the dark once more.

The tent was stiflingly hot, the water was sulphurous, and Erik dared not taste the scraps. He stretched out on the straw and closed his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to scream and cry, but knew that would only bring unwanted attention. Hannah's memory rose in his mind; her kindly face and soft voice comforted him. Eventually, despite his fear and misery, Erik fell asleep.

The following morning, Erik woke to the sound of a creaking cage door. His eyes snapped open and he scuffled to a crouch in a corner of the cage. Herroux stood in front of him, holding the white mask. He waved the mask in Erik's face, taunting him.

"This is nicer'n what I got for you. You don't need it." He tossed the mask through the bars of the cage. "I got something better." He pulled a small burlap sack from his back pocket. Two rough eyeholes had been cut into it. He walked over and dropped the sack onto Erik's lap. "Put it on."

Erik hesitated only a few seconds. Too long. His mother's slap had merely sent him to the floor; the kick aimed at his hip launched him into the bars of the cage. He struggled back to his guarded crouch as quickly as possible.

"Put it _on_!" roared Herroux, raising a fist. This time, there was no hesitation. Erik pulled the rough thing over his head and adjusted the eyeholes so he could see.

Once the bag was in place, Herroux grabbed him by the front of his shirt, which promptly ripped. He shook the small boy soundly, reveling in his greater power. The other freaks could come and go as they pleased. They were performers and adults. This was different. Herroux intended to put this one in his place long before the ugly creature ever thought of puberty.

"Next time you'll move faster, or you'll taste the whip. Now, you're gonna make your debut. Stand up."

_Debut_? thought Erik as he rose to his feet, favoring his bruised hip. A debut was what a performer did onstage. He had dreamed, as a small child, of his debut as a singer. _Never_, he decided. _I ill never perform for you_.

Herroux opened the curtain, and the fair workers streamed in, crowding around the cage. They always previewed each new act and give their opinions about the title. Herroux had found that the pre-screening usually resulted in excellent marketing ideas – it also amused his coworkers, earning him free beer and wine.

Herroux towered over the trembling boy, presenting him with an outstretched hand.

"I give you my newest _acquisition_. I haven't decided on a name, but I know you're going to help me out there." Cheers erupted from the crowd. "Those among you faint at heart, avert your gaze!"

"Aw, give it up, Herroux. Bet you ain't got nothin' under that bag we ain't seen before."

"You bet, eh?" Herroux laughed his booming laugh. "Fine. I'll wager you dinner for the next week. How's that?" There were shouts of agreement – Herroux could already taste the mutton. He tore the bag from Erik's head, catching several strands of hair.

Erik's little hiss of pain was lost in the collective gasp of the crowd. Several people did turn their heads, others made startled exclamations.

"Hideous!"

"Ugh!"

"What _is_ that?"

"Oh ye gods, Herroux, cover it back up!"

Erik started to put his hands over his face, more to hide from the crowd than anything else, but a cuff on the back of the head warned him that it was not allowed. Despite his determination not to cry, no matter what, he felt his eyes prick. He blinked rapidly, forcing the unwelcome display of weakness back. In his mind, these were wild animals, and if they smelled fear he was doomed.

A stillness to his right caught his attention, and he turned his gaze that way. Near his cage stood the girl from before, the one with the pastries. She was perhaps two years his senior. She was neither yelling nor fainting; she was looking at him with a peculiar expression of discomfort. She clutched her tray proclaiming 'Pastries: Delicious & Freshbaked'. She seemed solemn, and a little sad. The screeching of the crowd dimmed in his ears for a moment as his eyes met hers. She mouthed, "I'm sorry," and walked away, gracefully weaving between the larger adults in the throng.

The topic of conversation was now the title of his "act". 'Corpse boy' and 'walking dead boy' were bandied about. The ticket taker, with her shrill voice, hollered over the rest.

"You oughtn't keep him at all, Herroux! That's the Devil's Child, that is!"

Herroux laughed. "I think Claudia's given us a name, there. The Devil's Child it is. Get John on the job and make me a sign!" The burlap bag was thrust over Erik's head once more, mercifully hiding him from the leers and cruel eyes of the crowd.

The rest of the day was a blur. Once the sign hung over the tent door, Herroux was open for business. Crowd after crowd of grubby faces and wide eyes paraded past his cage. Over and over, Herroux ripped the hood from his head to a symphony of screams and gasps. People fainted, women hid their eyes in their husbands' shoulders. Never in his worst nightmares had Erik ever imagined a hell like this. _Am I really so terrible? _he wondered.

At the end of the day, when the crowds had gone, Herroux thrust a plate of scraps into the cage and removed the bucket for emptying. Erik could only lie curled up in one corner, shuddering and trying futilely to disappear. He could still feel their eyes all over him, and the feeling was insufferable. He ignored the food and reached for the mercy of sleep.

Days passed without change in the routine. Erik realized that he would quietly go mad if he could not divert his thoughts from the screams and gasps of the multitude. In that first week, he put his extraordinary mind to the task of preserving itself. There was nothing else for him to do. Without Hannah or books, only one pleasure remained to him – Music. To keep himself sane, he composed music in his head, and sang it quietly to himself after all sounds from the fair grounds ceased. He practiced his spelling, his mathematics - anything to remind himself of the person he had once been.

Eventually, hunger drove Erik to take some food. He was too young to follow through with his plan of suicide by starvation, too young to do much but survive. Several of the fair workers came to peer at him after hours, but he gave no sign that he noticed. When they threw rotten food at him to raise a reaction, he simply pushed the fetid stuff out of his cage and sat back down, his eyes focused on a point a thousand yards from nowhere. He wondered about the quiet girl and where she was working.

This was a travelling fair, moving from town to town. He knew they were moving on when his cage was lifted by workers and loaded into a wagon. That was the only clue he ever had - from the bars of his cage and the dingy walls of the freak-tent, every town looked the same. The people who came to gape at him were all the same big stinking, screaming person. Herroux became more brutish as time passed, not less. He was generous with his fists and heavy boots, determined to prevent any "cheek" from this little freak.

When he was drunk, he used the whip, whether Erik had caused any offense or not. Herroux was a brute, but he was not a stupid brute. As cruel as he was, he had money invested in Erik. He was careful not to kill the boy, because the boy was worth far more money if he was healthy looking, if he could stand and be gawked at. Short of that, though, he did as he pleased and when he was drunk, he did things that made even the shrill ticket-taker pity the ugly child. Through everything, Erik kept his vow. He never cried once.


	6. A Little Warmth

Winter approached, and though the tent stopped the freezing winds, his cage offered little protection from the cold. Each night, Erik burrowed under the straw and shivered until unconsciousness took him. Each night he hoped he would slip away from hypothermia. He had read about such things happening. Herroux neglected to provide him with a blanket or any heavier clothes. Erik's shirt had long since shredded from the frequent whippings. His death seemed inevitable. He only hoped it would happen in his sleep.

One night as he shivered and tried to burrow deeper into the thin layer of straw, he saw a little glow suddenly appear from the flap at the back of his room. He hadn't heard anyone approach, but prepared himself for the taunting, or beating, or whatever it was they were going to do to him.

"Boy?" It was a soft voice; something completely foreign in his world. "Boy, are you…asleep?"

He sat up warily, straightening his 'mask' and trying to see the interloper in the candlelit dimness. It was the quiet girl of the first morning. She stood there, holding a candle in one hand, and a large sack in the other. She walked close to side of the cage where he was crouching, and set down her candle.

Erik studied his visitor. She was a plain girl, with common features that fell just short of coarseness. Her stringy mouse-brown hair was pulled into a braid at the nape of her neck. Her soft brown eyes peered out from a thin, ruddy face with narrow curving lips. Her body was rangy under her simple brown wool dress and white pinafore. Her hands were covered with the tiny burns he associated with the cooks from his mother's kitchen. This girl wasn't pretty, but neither was she taunting him or making faces at him.

She spoke again, as began to untie the knot holding her sack closed. "Mother told me I could do as I pleased tonight. She doesn't care, as long as I don't get us in trouble. She thinks the way Herroux treats you is horrid anyway, so when I tell her what I did, she won't be mad."

Erik stared at her, making no comment. What was she babbling about? What was in the bag? When was she going to turn on him and taunt him? He watched as she pulled a small brown paper sack and set it on the ground. Then she wrestled a large blanket out of the bag and began threading it between the bars of his cage.

"There. Wrap up in that. Why don't you talk? Can you talk?" she was peering at him with concerned brown eyes, clearly trying to decide whether he was mute or feeble.

He hadn't spoken since his mother left him to Herroux's tender care. There was no need to speak, only to obey. He often would sing to himself in the silence of the early morning, but that wasn't the same as speaking. He had almost forgotten what conversation was like. After a moment's consideration he decided he would answer her, but only as long as she remained civil.

"I can speak. Who are you?" He did not trust this girl, but couldn't deny that it was good to talk to a person who wasn't screaming obscenities at him.

He pulled the blanket over himself, wrapping it around his thin, shivering shoulders. As it abraded the fresh wounds on his back he sucked in a quick breath. Erik was sure some of the cuts had reopened, but he was too grateful for the warmth to care. Gradually, the shivers subsided.

"I'm Leslie. I sell cakes…" she trailed off. Of course he knew she sold pastries – he had seen her twice now with the tray. She was quite sure now that there was nothing wong with his brain. "I brought some cakes for you to have, if you want. It doesn't look like Herroux feeds you overmuch. They're the leftovers from today. They might be a little stale, but it's what I have."

She opened the little brown bag and pulled out three large pieces of pastry. Erik looked at the flaky turnovers, his stomach growling and knotting in his stomach. Involuntarily, he reached through the bars. Leslie hastily pushed the pastries through the bars, and scuttled back away from the cage. Suddenly, Erik found that he'd lost interest in the food. She was frightened of him! He hadn't done anything to scare her, but she was obviously sure he was going to hurt her. He tried to look gentle; he tried not to feel like a wild beast being hand fed in the fair's petting zoo.

"Thank you, Leslie. I wish I had some way to pay you back, but…" he looked pointedly at his bare cage. She only shook her head, carefully keeping out of arm's reach.

"Actually, I do have a way, but you must keep it a complete secret. Will you, if I show you something special?"

Leslie nodded, wondering what the boy could possibly have in there with him. To her surprise and slowly dawning delight, he pulled himself up as straight as possible, cleared his throat and sang a sweet little song commonly sung by mothers trying to hush screaming babies.

"_Sleep, baby, sleep. _

_Your father tends the sheep…_"

Erik's repertoire consisted almost entirely of lullabies and ancient folksongs. It was all Hannah had known to teach him.

Leslie listened raptly for a little while before the song caught her entirely in its spell. She felt her eyelids grow heavy and droop. She was powerless as the warm soothing balm of his voice flowed over her. _An angel_ she thought. _I'm hearing an angel. This is what heaven must sound like._ The song was over too soon. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes and smiled at him, all her fears gone.

"That was beautiful. I've never heard anyone sing like that before. Where'd you learn to do it?"

Erik was perplexed. Where had he learned? Hadn't he always sung? It was like breathing or walking. He had never stopped to think _how_ he did it. "I don't know. I just do. Are you going to leave this blanket here? Herroux'll skin me, if you do. But it's so cold…"

She hadn't thought of that. Herroux would probably beat him, if she left the blanket tonight. But what if she brought it to him tomorrow, saying that her Mama thought it necessary to keep the boy alive? That's what she would do. She explained her plan to Erik, who regretfully unwound the blanket from his shoulders.

"Stop," she said, unable to bear the sight of his bone-thin body shivering in the night air. "I'll stay here with you a little while longer, if you want. Just leave the blanket so I can reach it, and when you fall asleep, I'll take it back. Hey, what's your name? I can't call you Devil Child…"

When his name did not pop instantly to his lips, Erik winced under his burlap. He hadn't thought of his own name in months. "Erik".

"Pleased to meet you." She curtsied clumsily. "How old are you, anyway?"

Erik thought about it. He had never known his exact birthday, but Hannah always thought it was in the Spring, and celebrated it with him on the first day of Spring each year. That would make him still seven. "I'm seven. How old are you?"

"I'm small for my age. I'm eleven, but I'll be twelve soon. Now lie on down and sleep."

Well fed and warm, Erik fell asleep quickly. When dawn pierced his eyelids he was shivering in the cold again. He knew Herroux would be there soon, followed by the crowds of customers, but he found he did not mind nearly as much. Somewhere on the fairgrounds was a person who neither feared nor hated him. The stream of crowds came and went, at some point some boys started throwing rocks at him, but he let his mind wander away to thoughts of the kind little girl who had brought him food and warmth in the night.

When the day was done, Herroux appeared and thrust a familiar piece of fabric into the cage. "Here. There's some around here that think Hell's fire isn't enough to keep you warm. God knows I don't care." Erik smiled under his burlap sack. He knew who the "some" was.


	7. Death and Freedom

A year passed with little change, then two. Erik understood the hopeless nature of his situation; his 'situation' had always seemed hopeless in one way or another. As the seasons passed he fell deeper into his mind and the music he found there. Death was frequently within reach; his reason for continuing to draw breath was that sacred music.

The beauty in his head helped him remain apart from and above the base crowds who howled and clamored around him. Sweet ballads blocked out the noise of the masses and allowed him to forget his physical miseries. When all had fallen silent, and his captor's heavy boots had staggered up his wagon steps for the final time, Erik would begin to sing to himself. Sometimes he sang old songs from his years with Hannah, sometimes he sang the folk songs the rough people at the fair sang. More and more often, though, the melodies were his own. His helplessness and rage, his sadness and despair all became a beautiful, wordless keening that softened the crisp air of night.

Leslie continued to visit him when she thought it safe. She would bring him leftover cakes, bits of her own dinner, and books when she could manage it. For the first year, she had stayed well outside his reach, fearful that he would suddenly become all the things the rumors said he was. She had heard it whispered that Herroux had found him wandering down the road with the blood of his own family dripping from his hands. Time proved these whispers wrong. He would tell her nothing of himself or where he came from, but there was no way the gentle boy who remained so under any treatment could ever have committed such a crime.

The second year, she would sit very close to his cage, telling him stories, laughing quietly with him. Were it not for the bars and the fear of discovery glinting in their eyes, they would have seemed very much like two normal children. Each had found a kindred spirit in the other.

Leslie's world had always been the fair; its people, noises, and smells were her world. The songs Erik sang and gentle manner he displayed woke in her mind the possibility of a very different world. His confinement taught her of her own liberty. She began exploring each city and town as the fair rolled through so that she could return to him with tales of life outside the fair. She turned to books for new stories. Her mind grew sharp instead of languishing in the mud of the fairgrounds.

While Erik gave Leslie music, Leslie gave Erik life. When the beatings were too bad, she found bandages and poultices to place on his wounds. When his ribs protruded too far beyond the cavern of his belly, she made sure to bring hot, nourishing food from her own table. She developed a skill in stealth that Erik very much admired. Herroux never found them out and Leslie's mother truly didn't care, as long as her daughter was careful.

In his third year, ticket sales began to slack off. Times were hard all over the country, and people no longer had money for amusement; they were struggling just to put food on the table. Each month that passed saw smaller and smaller crowds. Despite his vow, Erik began to contemplate singing or dancing; anything to draw a larger crowd to his tent and ward off the rage of his keeper.

Thanks to the diminishing crowds, Herroux had to start buying cheaper alcohol which left him with roaring hangovers and a roaring temper to match. Erik was an easy and helpless scapegoat for all the troubles Herroux felt were heaped unfairly on his shoulders. Leslie had to bring poultices more frequently, and often it was all Erik could do to crawl to the side of the cage where she could reach to apply them. While he waited for the girl's careful ministrations to ease the pain, Erik entertained wild fantasies of escape.

On the first night of Spring, Leslie came to visit bearing a freshly baked pastry. She and Erik continued Hannah's custom of celebrating his birthday. Leslie explained to Erik that this birthday was extra-special because he was now two numbers instead of only one. As usual, Leslie started off singing Happy Birthday, but as usual Erik shushed her after only a few notes. "No, no. You've got to pitch it lower so you can reach that high note without missing it." He began singing at a slightly lower pitch, to demonstrate. His impromptu voice lesson was interrupted as the rear flap snapped open.

Herroux thrust himself into the room, furious and drunk. The little freak could sing! Why hadn't he been singing this whole time? A singing freak would be sure to draw a huge crowd, no matter how tight times got.

"You little monster! You been lying to me, you been _hiding_ things from me! ME, who feeds you and keeps you! You been stealing money from me! If you'd been singing this whole time, I wouldn't be trying to scrape up some money for Scotch." His eyes flicked to the girl frozen in fear beside the cage. "And now you've got _women_ consorting with you! Well, this time I'll show you! I'll show you!"

Leslie scrambled, whimpering, out of the huge man's way to one side of the tent. She had never seen him in a drunken rage before, though she had heard legendary tales. She had seen the whip wheals and the bruises on Erik's arms and legs, but never imagined the scenes that put them there. Erik certainly never told her those stories.

Horrified, she watched as he grabbed the whip and wrestled his key into the lock. Once in the cage he locked the door and put the key in his pocket. Erik tried to curl up to protect himself, but Herroux' rage was too great. A rain of kicks and whiplashes rained down on every unprotected part of his body. Incoherent shouts and grunts accompanied each kick or strike. Leslie screamed for him to stop, stop for the love of all that's good, but Herroux was beyond hearing and beyond reason.

Erik heard her, from that twilight place where consciousness had not ebbed away completely. He struggled to the side of the cage near her. He grasped the bars, thrust one hand towards her and managed to say, "Help me, please," before Herroux dragged him away. Leslie fled.

Before Leslie, Erik would have allowed Herroux to kill him without complaint and possibly with the quietest murmur of thanks. Now, he suddenly rallied, not really hoping to save himself, but unwilling to die so easily. He heard the whistle of air over the whip and threw his arm up. The whip wrapped around his wrist, snapping against the soft flesh of his forearm. Instead of crying out in pain, Erik heard himself cry out in fury. This had been his birthday party!

He caught onto the coils with his free hand. When Herroux yanked the whip back, Erik ignored the wave of pain that rolled up from his dislocated wrist and allowed his body to follow the arc of the thong, wrapping it deftly around Herroux' fat neck. The huge man was too drunk to realize his peril. He only growled angrily and began beating the boy with his fists and feet, spluttering and trying to gasp as his air ran out. Erik felt his grip on the leather slipping. He grunted with frustration, wrapping both his hands in the coils as gauzy gray dropped over his eyes. The last thing he saw between his fluttering eyelids was Herroux' face, dusky purple and swollen.

Leslie's mother was a good woman who loved her daughter. She knew that Leslie had befriended the ugly little boy in the freak tent, and was glad. That ugly little freak apparently knew something about schooling and inspired her daughter to read and learn, a feat no amount of pleading or threatening had ever been able to accomplish. So when her daughter came running into the house at four in the morning, wild-eyedand gasping with sobs, she tried to collect her thoughts quickly.

"Mama. Mama, please…come… He's killing him! He's going to kill him if you don't come right now!" Leslie was pulling frantically at her mother's hand, dragging the sleep fuddled woman out the door and through the avenues.

They arrived at the freak-tent, which was eerily quiet. They walked in through the door and made their way back to Erik's room, Leslie hardly daring to look, afraid of what she'd see. The sight that greeted them was pitiful and frightening enough to bring warm tears into Leslie's mother's eyes and a little moan of shock to her throat. Erik lay in the bottom of his cage, so battered and bloody it was hard to tell which parts weren't wounded. The door had been padlocked. Herroux lay nearby, the whip twisted around his throat. Erik's now limp hand was draped over the tails of the whip. He had fallen unconscious even as he strangled his attacker. Herroux had the key in his pocket still; neither Leslie nor her mother could reach the dead man's pants. Leslie leaned as close to her friend as she could. He was still breathing. Shallowly, raspingly, but still breathing. She laid a hand on his outstretched arm and squeezed gently.

"I'm here, Erik, I'm here. Don't die, please don't. Mama and I are going to get you out. I'm going to help you, Erik." She babbled on for a moment, and then turned to her mother, pleading.

"Mama, get him out. Please." Leslie's eyes were wet with tears. She had never begged her mother for anything before.

"Honey, I don't…" She trailed off, not knowing what to tell her daughter.

"Please, he'll die...don't let him die..."

The goodhearted woman cast her eyes around the tent. Her eyes lit on the tent-hooks used for putting up and taking down the canvas between towns. Together, she and her daughter maneuvered the dead man's body until Leslie's skinny arm could snake between the bars to reach his pocket. The images would haunt both women for the rest of their lives.

Once in the cage, Leslie's mother lifted the boy, marveling at how light he was in her arms. How had such a small creature overcome such a huge opponent? By Leslie's accounting, he was ten years old, but he seemed to weigh barely fifty pounds. She carried him to her wagon where she did her best to dress his grievous injuries. She bound his back and chest to stop the bleeding from the whip wheals. She put poultices on his numerous bruises. There were almost certainly broken ribs, but there was nothing she could do for that but bind them tightly. She slipped the sack off the boy's head, flinched at what she saw, then went about putting cold cloths on his swollen eye and split lip. Once she had done the best she could for the boy, she turned to her daughter with a look that said she would brook no arguments.

"He can't stay here, Leslie. I'm sorry, honey, but what we just did amounts to theft, and what _he_ just did amounts to murder."

"But Mama! You didn't see it! Herroux was going to kill him! He…"

"It doesn't matter that he was saving his own life, or your life. A face like that, who's going to listen to his side? If they find him here, we're all through, him and you and me." Leslie's mother didn't mourn the passing of the brutish man. Everyone would be better off for his death, but she was a realist, and this boy was now a danger to her family.

Leslie sat beside her friend, stroking his hand, carefully avoiding the sight of his face. "It's alright, Mama, I know where he should go, and I know how to get him there."

Erik remained unconscious for two hours. When he woke, he woke with a scream, throwing a hand up to protect his face. The motion tortured every inch of his body. He felt the pain first, then registered that someone had treated his wounds. Soft hands covered his, and a soft voice crooned to him, "Erik, Erik, it's Leslie. I'm here. Don't worry. No one is going to hurt you anymore."

He realized that his burlap sack was gone - Leslie could see at his face.

"Don't look at me, please," he murmured, trying to cover his whole face with his one functioning hand. She covered that hand with hers, but didn't try to move it. In truth, the one time she had seen his face, it had given her nightmares. She could hold his hand, though, and try to comfort him. "I'm a murderer. I killed him, I know it." His voice was shaking, his visible green eye haunted and dark.

Leslie's eyes flashed in anger. "What were you supposed to do? Let him beat you to death? Erik, we have to get you out of here. If they find you here, they'll probably just kill you, and there's no telling what will happen to Mama and me."

"Where will I go? How will I live?"

Leslie's answered confidently. "You like music, right? And singing?" He nodded slowly, amazed to see that she was actually smiling at him. "I found a place in this city where you can go.. I can take you there on Mama's horse, if she'll let me. It's a...uh…an Opera house. All they do there is sing and play music. I met one of the dancing girls who lives there. She says lots of people live there. They showed me where you can get in, and everything. Maybe you can steal food from the kitchens - the gods know they have more than enough to spare."

Erik stared at her in disbelief. A house where people did nothing but sing and play music? It sounded like an impossibly sweet dream. Even with his face, he could maybe become someone in such a place. Half an hour later, he was balanced painfully, precariously, on the back of a horse, Leslie sitting behind him, her arms holding the reins - and him - steady. A weather-beaten hat covered his head. He wore Leslie's cast off work clothes. His had been too torn and bloodied to even count as rags anymore. Leslie's mother had given him a bit of bread and cheese wrapped in oilcloth.

Leslie pulled the horse to a stop beside a sluggish stream of water. It flowed into a small grate in the side of a huge, ornate building. Erik stared up at the place. Even his mother's mansion had not been half so fine. Of course, he thought, it is only just beautiful enough if it is the house of music Leslie described.

"There's where you get in."

She helped him down, and supported him as he limped slowly towards the grate. He lowered himself into the frigid water, relieved to find that it was only waist deep - he had learned to dog paddle one good summer, but never to swim. He saw that he could duck under the gate and float into whatever came next. He didn't fear the unknown; whatever it was, it had to be better than the torment and humiliation he was leaving behind.

He took in a deep breath, ready to duck under, when he heard Leslie calling him.

"Erik. Erik? Don't forget me, and I won't forget you."

Erik locked his eyes on hers and smiled. "I could never forget you, Leslie."

The water was numbing his aching body, so he ducked under, and allowed the current to carry him to the other side.


	8. Christine

Not long after Erik's mother left him to the tender care of Herroux, a family far to the North experienced its own joy. In a small, but comfortable Swedish villa, Aldis Daae gave birth to a baby girl attended only by her husband; several days of heavy rain had rendered the dirt road to their remote home an impassible wallow of mud. Fortunately, it was an easy birth, with no complications; both baby and mother emerged healthy and happy.

"We'll call her Christine. It's a fitting name for so perfect a little angel." the tired new mother smiled dreamily and fell asleep, leaving the frazzled father to painstakingly clean and swaddle this precious, squirming bit of life. Baby Christine was alert, and had fixed her eyes on her father's face. Nils Daae fairly felt his heart wrap around the child's almost nonexistent little finger.

Nils was not a young man; he and his wife had married later in life. Until this moment, his greatest passion was his music. A beautiful, meticulously cared for maple violin rested on a stand in the corner of the birthing room. Nils had played it until his fingers cracked and bled to comfort his wife during her labor. Aldis would always credit the ease of her birth to the magic of her husband's music. He was known to no one but the hardy rustics in the nearby farmhouses and villages, but those who knew him spoke his name reverently, and always in connection with his genius for playing enchanting music. He had learned five languages, only to read the works of the composers whose works he played. Now, looking into his daughter's half lidded blue eyes, he knew that music would take second place in his passions.

"Little Christine," he cooed, though he knew it would be a month at least before the first toothless smile appeared. "Sweet little Christine, your Daddy hasn't got much to give you, but he'll give you music. And if you have that, you'll have the world."

He kissed her fuzzy little head as her eyes fell shut, and laid her gently in the bassinet at the foot of their bed. Carefully, he lifted the exquisite instrument from its stand. The violin felt good to hold, even though his worn out fingers could not begin to close around the strings. He rocked in the rocking chair, watching his wife and daughter sleep peacefully and imagined the sweet lullabies he would play to his little girl until he drifted off.

The next two years were close to idyllic for the little Swedish family. Their farm supplied their basic needs. Nils often played his violin at village weddings, funerals, and other special occasion. Usually, he received something useful in trade, which provided the Daaes with little luxuries like iron cookware, well made clothing, and comfortable furniture.

The best of Nils' music was reserved for his family. Christine could sing before she could speak, and sung most of her spoken words when she did start talking. Her father had promised her music, and he had delivered admirably. As soon as she could remember the lyrics of her favorite lullabies, he began taking her with him wherever he went to play. The villagers called her "onze kleine vogel" – our little bird.

One day, when the four year old Christine had just finished dazzling a wedding audience with a sweetly lisped rendition of Blomman, one of the village elders took Nils aside. Along with everyone else Jan listened, spellbound, to the father-daughter duo, but his thoughts were not on the music now. They were on the future of the extraordinary child.

"Nils, what are you going to do with that child?"

Nils looked perplexed. "Do with her?"

"Yes, and with yourself. Neither of you belongs in this town, far from anyone who can understand your music. I know I don't understand it, myself, as much as I might like it. You really ought to take her somewhere, let her be trained and become famous. She is meant for more than knitting and sheep shearing. You know that."

Nils studied his hands. He _did_ know that. But how could he leave this place? Aldis loved the farm, as did he. All Christine knew was here. How could he uproot her and drag her into the tumultuous world of performers and musicians, stages and spotlights? "Maybe, Jan, maybe. Give her some time to grow up. Let her see a few more Swedish winters, first."

Jan nodded, understanding the father's reluctance to leave everything behind. Silently, he looked the child over. She would be great. Truly great. He clucked his tongue, clapped Nils on his solid shoulder, and walked off to find his own goodwife. Nils looked after the wise old man with troubled eyes. He was right. Of course he was right. But not right now.

That winter, Aldis developed a little cough that would not respond to anything the local herbalist could concoct. By Summer, she was losing weight rapidly, and barely had the energy to sew new dresses for her rapidly growing daughter. Christine didn't understand what was wrong with her mother, but she did her best to take up the extra housework her mother couldn't do. Of course, the five-year-old's best efforts barely made a dent.

Nils studied his wife's pale cheeks and trembling hands with sad concern. Doctors had been called, and their diagnosis was grim. It was consumption. Everything that could be done, had been. The villages had pooled money to bring in a great specialist, who returned the same verdict. Christine's mother was dying, and there was nothing that could stop it. At most, she had a year to live.

Aldis determinedly made it through that year. As Spring warmed, she was moved permanently into the bed where she had born her daughter. Again, Nils played any tune she liked for her, over and over. Christine sang everything in her considerable and growing repertoire. Music's magic was summoned, as father and daughter tried to buy a few more weeks with their beloved. There was only so much music and love could do here. By the time the brief summer sun was shining warmly on the fields, Nils knew his wife's time could be counted in days and hours.

While Christine played with the young sheep in the pasture, Aldis pulled her husband to her side. Her breath was stertorous and shallow. Her eyes were sunken; she labored for each word, but was determined to have her say.

"Hush now, Nils, and let me talk. I'm going soon, and when I'm gone, I want you to go, too. Sell the farm. The Sjorgens will buy it. Take Christine and go…wherever musicians go to become great. Don't you dare stay here. And let her become nothing. Nils. Promise me."

How could he argue with her?

"Alright, Aldis. I'll take her to Paris. There's an opera house there. Several. We'll see if any of them is interested in an old violinist and his prodigy daughter. I promise."

The smile on his wife's tired face reminded him of her smile on the day of their daughter's birth. She fell asleep then, and did not wake again. Three days later, the rasping, rattling sound of her struggle to breathe stopped. Christine found her father kneeling silently beside her mother's bed, his eyes red, but dry. She didn't have to ask what had happened. Her parents had prepared her well for this day. She threw her herself on her mother's body and cried, "Goodbye mommy, please go to the part of Heaven where they have all the beautiful singing!" She wept a little, but put full faith in the idea that her mother was happy now, hearing the most beautiful music ever played. How much could she cry, knowing that?

Nils covered his own rising sobs with a gruff cough. He lifted his little daughter from the bed, kissed her, and said, "Ah ma petite! Veux-tu m'accompagner a Paris devenir chanteuse d'opera?"

Christine's somber face wrinkled up in confusion. "What Daddy? I don't speak that!"

Nils nodded. "But your mother wants you to, sweetheart. Come help me get the man who will take care of mommy. Then, tonight, we will have our first French lesson."

Aldis' funeral was silent, except for the eulogy. Nils tried to lift his violin to his chin, but his hands failed him at the same time his knees did. The violin fell to the soft ground, unheeded, as the musician buried his face in his hands and wept like a child. Christine stood by her father, patting his shoulder and saying, "Mommy's all better now, Daddy, don't worry, don't worry…"for several minutes before starting to cry herself. The villagers watched with quiet sympathy. Aldis was not the first person to die of consumption there this Summer, but her death signaled the loss of the village's musician, and a longer silence than they cared to think about.


	9. Coming Home

The current carried him a few feet before he felt the sloping wall of the aqueduct curving up to his left. He tried to plant his feet, but for a nervous moment could not stop slipping along with the water. His toes dug into a crack in the concrete, while his bruised and sore hands scrambled for purchase on the rough edge of the manmade waterway. Weakened from hunger, broken from his lethal encounter less than five hours ago, numbed from the frigid channel water, it was the most primal of drives that pulled him from the water and allowed him to roll away from the edge before he passed into unconsciousness.

A night and a day passed before he swam up to awareness again. Awareness was not the place he wanted to be; it was filled with a chorus of physical exigencies, each as desperate as the next. He was stiff almost to paralysis from his injuries. He had not eaten in better than a day, and he had been underfed for years before. The small parcel of food Leslie's mother had given him would make one quick, soggy meal. He was blue and shivering with cold. He needed to void. As he lay there, he began to laugh despite the slicing pains from his cracked ribs. He was alive. Debased and entirely without dignity, but alive. And free.

Crawling first, then dragging himself into a slow, limping walk, Erik forced himself to begin exploring. His survival depended on his finding the kitchens soon. From his years with Herroux he knew that the only way to relieve the stiffness of injuries and exertion was to keep moving, always keep moving. He struggled to remember how his mother's house was laid out. The kitchens had to be on the ground floor, and near the back, because of the heavy ovens and the fires. He was certainly below ground now, so he had to find his way up.

The splashes and drips of water echoed around him, and he thought he heard the occasional rat squeak. For several terrified seconds, he expected to hear Herroux' pounding boots chasing behind, until he remembered...

"I killed him. He's dead. Because of me." His words were whispered, but the curving walls of the catacombs reflected them back at him; an accusation he couldn't deny. Leslie's indignant voice argued with the whispers. _"What were you supposed to do? Let him beat you to death?"_

"Would it have mattered?" Erik growled. The echoes spoke back, muttering, "mattered…mattered…mattered."

_I'm talking to myself. Alone in a basement, talking to myself. _Erik shook himself back to awareness.

Fortunately, a service door appeared in the wall. Erik tried the knob, sighing in relief to find it unlocked. Upon opening it, though, he was faced with steep stairs leading up into darkness. Not right now, he thought, just a moment to rest." But he knew that if he rested, he might not be able to start moving again. He imagined some one coming down the steps, finding his body. Again he started laughing. The expression on that person's face when he lifted the mask to identify the body…

Each flight of steps felt like a mountain. He made it to each landing, where another door waited. These doors were marked B4, B3, B2, B1, and finally G. Leslie's voice murmured in his memory, this time not comforting at all, "_If they find you here, they'll probably just kill you…"_ That was still true, even if no one outside the fair ever knew he existed. Now that he was a murderer as well as a freak, there was no reason he shouldn't be killed on sight,

"Like a rabid animal" he whispered, breaking his moratorium on talking aloud to himself. This door likely led to some hallway in the great House. There would be people. Leslie had said that lots of people lived there. That meant servants, staff, musicians and performers and maybe audiences…all of whom had to be avoided. To the ten year old boy it felt as though all of mankind had rejected him. To the rest of the world, he simply did not exist.

_Let it be like he killed me, then. Until Hannah died I was a ghost in my mother's house. Let me be a ghost._

He opened the door the slightest bit and peeked through just in time to see a maidservant's skirts swishing away down the hall. He took a deep breath, which caught in his chest. Food! He could smell chicken or duck, some sort of sauce, maybe peppers… The smells alone gave him the courage to stick his head out. This hall was empty. The tantalizing smells seemed to be coming from the left, so he stepped in the hall and hobbled that direction as quickly as he could.

Any other time of day, Erik would have been caught before he'd gone ten steps. Right now, though, everyone was either at dinner or serving dinner. Even the cooks had banked the fires and were in the service kitchen taking their ease after setting up the desert trays. Erik limped into the kitchen after peeking through the door. He kept his head low and moved from countertop to countertop, hoping something would be left out. Success came in the form of a huge wheat loaf fresh baked for the morrow's breakfast and a long sausage link. His only conflict was a struggle to grab the food and keep moving, instead of gobbling what he could right there. A shuffling movement through a doorway beside the ovens set him in motion. Bread and sausage in hand, he limped to the door, peeked out into the empty hallway and scurried as well as he could to the service door. Settling down to his first substantial food in weeks, he forced himself to take small bites. Experience was a good teacher, and griping stomach cramps were not on his agenda.

As he sat digesting, he heard a sudden bustle of activity in the corridor on the other side of the door. The after-dinner clean-up had begun. It must be dinner. No other meal inspired this much effort. Hannah had described the elaborate six or even eight course meals served by the duchess to her distinguished guests when he had asked about the evening bustle just outside 'their' wing. If this was dinner, then night could not be far away. Night would be a safer time to explore his new home more freely. Patience was on his side, and with a full belly and an overtaxed body, patience was easy to come by. He huddled on his landing and waited in the dim glow of the gaslight fixtures for silence to reign.

But silence didn't fall as he expected. Instead, the rush intensified, crested and receded, into a brief silence broken by…music. Beautiful, floating, and ethereal, yet powerful enough to stop his breath, the symphony orchestra was striking up the prelude to the night's performance of _Tristan Und Isolde. _Erik never dreamed music like this existed anywhere but in his head; even he had never imagined this array of instruments or the sound they made being played together. The music was gentle, the music was sweet, the music was swallowing him whole.

Just as he remembered to breathe, a new instrument rose above the others. It was a voice, but sounded unlike any voice he had ever heard. It was controlled, its range was enormous, its resonant base thundered in his mind. When a woman's full-throated soprano joined the bass, Erik surrendered. He forgot that he ever had a face, let alone a broken body. He yearned to be near the singers, to be able to sing with them, like them. Food, drink, and rest never did more healing work than those hours of opera music bestowed on Erik.

After the performance, Erik slept briefly. His dreams were filled with music, sacred music that nourished the fading remnants of Hannah's Erik. He woke with a remembrance of serenity in his heart. There was no sound from the hallway, so he crept through the door, and limped down the hall. The fact that he was limping anywhere, that there were no bars in front of his face, filled him with a fierce excitement. Mentally mapping his route, he worked his way towards the place that had been filled with music. He passed the servants' quarters with trepidation, knowing that servants lived most of their real lives at night, while their masters slept.

Every corridor of the central building was imposing, decorated with hanging silks and tapestries, floored with smooth marble. Timid hands pulled open the enormous doors to the concert hall, with its rows and rows of cushioned chairs, balcony, small stage-like boxes set into the walls, and enormous chandelier sparkling in the muted glow of the gaslights. He walked down the aisle, between seats that had been filled not long ago with people thrilling to music. The stage beckoned to him.

He found the place where the proscenium curtains met and slipped between them. The sets for the opera were still here. Like the child he was, Erik played among them, putting himself in another world and letting the real one slip away. It was not long until he discovered the complex workings of the stage. Catwalks, curtain pulleys and ropes, and in several places, trapdoors set into the floor of the stage to allow actors to magically appear; all these things fascinated and delighted him. His fertile brain churned with a thousand ideas. Not only could he survive here, he could live well and happily. If he was clever, no one ever need know. When further exploration revealed the costume vaults and the library, Erik knew he had come home.


	10. This Place Is Mine

Once the intricacies of survival were seen to, Erik began to consider the possibilities of life under the palatial Opera House. His surroundings were beautiful and imposing; Erik wanted to be a compliment to them. He found a simple masquerade mask in the jumbled mess that was the costuming studio. After considering the rainbow of possible paints, he finally settled on stark white. Once it was dry, he tied it on and examined the result in one of the gilded mirrors. It looked debonair to him – especially after the itchy, demeaning burlap sack. Clothes from the costumes vault, once stapled and stitched, gave him the appearance of any other young patron of the Opera Populaire. The night he designed his first "costume", he stood happily before the tallest, brightest mirror he could find and admired the illusion.

Wearing a mask was not merely a habit or a vanity. There were mirrors everywhere in the great Opera house. That the elegant gentry might not miss a moment of their own attractiveness, there were mirrors in the hallways, in the tea and reception chambers, and on the entryway walls. Even some of the ceilings were mirrored to spread light evenly through the tastefully decorated rooms. Once, Erik had been curious about his appearance. Now that he had was the face of a murderer, any curiosity about the exact nature of his curse was quashed.

Less than a fortnight after he floated through the grate, Erik was certain that he would never desire another home. Stealthily, he watched the denizens of the Opera, admiring the grace of the dancers, the talent of the musicians, and the powerful self-possession of its patrons. He knew that he was of noble birth and his child's heart longed to emulate those of "his class." Like a shadow he followed them, copying their manners and their port.

Despite his obsession with watching the people of his chosen home, the majority of Erik's time was spent in lowest level of the basements. He had discovered the underground lake that provided the Opera House's water via an aqueduct system. In the middle of the lake there was an island of sorts, a leftover mound of rocks and mortar from the original foundations of the building which stood here long before the Opera House was built. The rocky island inspired romantic notions of faerie-tale castles surrounded by moats. They were always the safest places, so long as there were no invading dragons.

The initial problem was accessing the place. At first he floated across the lake on a piece of wood that had once been a huge door. It wasn't long until he got frustrated with being tipped into icy water, and stole a boat tied to moorings not far outside the opera house. From his vantage point on the center of the mound, he surveyed the soaring arches and glistening walls that made up the foundations of the huge building. Erik smiled to himself.

"This place is mine…" he murmured, at first frightened by the sound of his quiet declaration. A moment later, he straightened and spread his arms wide. Taking a deep breath, he raised his childish voice until it echoed around the foundations. "**This place is mine!**"

For the first month, Erik slept in the costumes vault on a stack of fabric. After his fiery claim of ownership, however, such an arrangement hardly seemed fitting. If this place was to be his, he would have to build a home. Materials inside the Opera House were abundant. Sets were constantly being built and torn down. The greatest difficulty Erik faced in designing and building his home was his own small, starved body. Soon, a little shack made of flats from the stage and two-by-eight pieces of lumber rose clumsily in the center of his island. Not long after, he began to fill it with cast off furniture from guest rooms, sets, anywhere he could find things that suited him –without getting caught.

Another problem he faced was darkness. There was very little light in Erik's cavernous home. Where the channel brought water through the grate some light trickled in, bouncing off the water and providing a faint glow during the day. At night it was pitch black. Erik quickly learned to take candles from the storage rooms in the servants' quarters so he could move about safely at night, though his night vision had become acute. Though candles were a hazard and bother, they were far better than nights spent trapped on the island.

Though the kitchens and stage prop storage areas provided him with the necessities of life, Erik's favorite place by far was the huge library. It held a comprehensive, frequently updated collection of the finest opera and classical works of music, along with music primers for those musicians who earned extra money by teaching. It also held an impressive non-musical collection for the betterment of the Opera's live-in population. The library provided him with all sorts of knowledge and amusement, but his favorites were books on music, architecture, and magic tricks. He discovered that he had an aptitude for sleight of hand. Indeed, he discovered that he had an aptitude for anything that caught his interest.

One of the myriad things that caught his interest was a pile of dusty, mouse-chewed blue-prints bound in cracked leather cases under a neglected bookshelf in the storage room at the back of the library. At first, Erik hadn't a clue as to what the various lines, circles and hash-marks meant; a few hours of study later, he could see the bones and sinew of the opera house.

The Opera Populaire was a sprawling monstrosity of a building, designed to accommodate artists, servants, guests, and administration. There was a stage and dressing rooms, of course, but there were also living spaces (both dorms and private rooms), kitchens, practice rooms for the orchestra, the singers, and the dancers. There was a chapel, with a nightly mass weekdays, and three on Sundays. (The managers would not have it said that employees of the Opera were godless.) There were entire wings devoted to administration and ticket sales. There were four basements above the lake where Erik made his home.

All of this was interesting to Erik, but the truly fascinating thing were the extensive networks of secret passages. Like Versailles, this building was riddled with passages in the walls once used by discreet servants and trysting lovers. By Erik's best estimation, most people currently living here were entirely unaware of the honeycombed walls. "This place is mine," he whispered with a smile.

Even though Erik soon became adept at moving from passageway to passageway, it was impossible to avoid detection entirely. He haunted the catwalks during performances and the halls at night in search of food and supplies. The servants of the house encountered him most frequently, usually in the form of a flitting shadow, or creaking floorboards. The set crew and managers noticed that unused scenery and props often went missing, but were never able to encounter the thief. Nothing was taken that was critical to a performance, so no one worried about it overmuch. Some half-hearted attempts were made to find someone living in the attics, but of course those efforts were fruitless.

As children will do, the young girls in the ballet corps co-opted the rumors of a sneak-thief, and turned them into ghost stories. Suddenly, Erik heard whispered conversations about the night-time exploits of Messieur le Fantome. The idea pleased him. No one would try to hunt down a ghost. A ghost might do as he pleased, as long as he remained undiscovered.

The managers also welcomed the fanciful stories of the Phantom of the Opera. Since a local paper reported a short column about their ghostly tenant, ticket sales doubled. It seemed that a haunted Opera house was more enticing than a regular opera house. Mssrs. Debienne and Poligny only shrugged and smiled. This ghost was harmless enough, and their resident diva was demanding a higher salary every time they turned around. Also, it kept the servants on their toes and the little girls of the ballet corps in their beds at night. "Be good, or the Opera Ghost will get you," became a refrain sung by the house mother any time her charges were unruly.

Only this last damped Erik's joy. He was tired of frightening people. He had hurt no one, taken nothing that was needed. No matter how much care he took to seem benign, it seemed that people were determined to fear him.


	11. Unseen Genius

Once his survival was assured and his daily routine in place, Erik suddenly found himself with time for thought. Unbidden, thoughts of his past would reverberate through his tranquil moments. His mother's cold voice, Hannah's warm hands, the shrieking of the crowds, Leslie's happy giggle and Herroux' glazed, blackened eyes clamored for dominance in his memory. He sought escapes from his past anywhere and everywhere.

As precocious as he might be, Erik was still a little boy. Specifically, he was a little boy-genius without any sort of adult supervision. Once he decided that this place of music was his, he set about making it conform to his standards. In that first year of the Ghost, the Opera Populaire had sunk to a historic low in terms of prosperity and quality. Though some of their resident performers were true artists, others were hired thanks to friends in strategic places. The amateur performances of these unskilled individuals dimmed the brilliance of the truly talented. Erik's sensitive ears quickly sorted the chaff from the wheat.

If the managers would not take it upon themselves to improve their staff, Erik could think of a certain Phantom who would be overjoyed to do their duty for them. Those not in his favor soon found their lives haunted by a poltergeist who hid their costumes, dripped ink in their music, and interrupted their rehearsals with falling scenery. This harassment continued until its victim fled the Opera.

Erik's little practical jokes made the lives of some performers miserable, but the favors he showered on his favorites displayed the kind, lonely child he truly was. They found flowers in their beds after performances, their dressing rooms were cleaned and straightened, and purloined sweets from the kitchens appeared on their bedside tables. Among these was a young dramatic soprano, La Carlotta, who had joined the Opera Populaire a few years before.

Erik's second past-time came from a serendipitous discovery. In the basement two levels above his lake, Erik found storage areas filled with ancient odds and ends in disuse. One room in particular was filled with box after box of metal pipes of differing lengths and sizes. A box behind these contained the body of an organ. If Erik had had loving parents, they probably would have gently told him that little boys couldn't build pipe organs. As it was, he was woefully uneducated about the limitations of children. His birthday present to himself that first year was a day spent dragging the pieces of the organ down to a room just above the lake-level where he lived. The body of the organ was far too large for him to move on his own, so he began carefully disassembling the sound boards, marking each piece as he went.

In the opera's chapel, there was a beautiful pipe organ, reserved for use during mass. The religious aspects of mass bored him, but the soaring voice of the huge pipe organ and the soft chanting of Latin enchanted him. He watched the Opera children squirm in their seats, get reprimanded by their mothers, only to start fidgeting again moments later. He watched the adults sit, stand and kneel as they were commanded by ritual. Most of all, he watched the organist as he wrung thrilling melodies out of the majestic instrument while a chosen altar-boy pumped furiously at the billows. Erik's hiding place beneath the silk drapings on a statue of Saint Cecilia allowed him to note exactly how the man moved his hands, used the knobs, and pressed the foot pedals. It did not look so very difficult…

When he slipped into this room in the quiet of the night, it still seemed to hold the magic of the day's music. He approached the organ with trepidation, half-believing that it might cry out in its powerful voice, breaking the silence and bringing the entire Opera down on his head. When it maintained its silence, he dared to creep up and sit on the stool. A moment later he ran his hands reverently over the keys. Gaining courage, he began to examine it closely, trying to determine how it was put together and what made the beautiful sounds. There were no books in the library on the making of pipe organs. The intricacies of pedals, keys, knobs, sounding boards, and pipes challenged his best thinking. He knew it would be years before his pipe organ breathed its first notes. Undaunted, the small boy continued his examination of the instrument.

Erik had nothing but time on his hands. In fact, he was oblivious to its passing. His days were filled with pet projects, reading books, and eavesdropping on music lessons. The secrets of Opera singers became Erik's secrets. He learned to support his voice from his diaphragm, to avoid depressing his tongue, and to use his head and chest space to produce a rounder, richer sound. He practiced singing while he improved his home, while he contemplated the mess of pipes, and while he walled up the main entrance to the lake-level basement. In this way, the years slipped by, marked only by the yearly Masquerade party and the cycle of traditional operas.

Erik had read enough to know that one day his voice would begin to disobey him. He had long ago lost track of his age, but certain changes in his body signaled the approach of the inevitable. One day he was singing the Ave Maria when his normally angelic voice broke and crumbled. He started again, with similar results. This was disaster! He couldn't sing more than a bar or two before his voice squeaked or dropped unexpectedly. A midnight trip to the library and a quick consultation with one of the voice training books alleviated his fears. His voice would stop breaking in a little while. Then he could sing again with confidence, and enjoy a deeper range and more powerful voice. For now, he would have to accept the breakage and mutation of his voice. The book warned that a male's transitioning voice could be damaged if used incorrectly, but it did not tell him how to train it correctly.

With his voice in disarray, Erik desperately sought other avenues for his music. He was a wellspring of music; it demanded release. One night, in desperation, he let himself into the most remote of practice rooms and approached the spinet piano. The small instrument inspired none of the awe he felt with the pipe organ. Its voice would be thinner and weaker than the glossy grand piano used in the orchestra. The acoustics of this tiny, heavily soundproofed room would be flat and harsh. But there would be music. His music.

The first touch of his fingers to the piano keys issued only a whisper of sound. He was not expecting the tight play of the keyboard or the awkwardness of his own fingers. The pianists' and organists' fingers moved so lightly over the keys! Erik growled under his breath and tried again. This time he only pressed one note; middle C. The sudden sound cracked through the deep silence, making Erik jump in spite of himself. Surely the entire Opera house and several people on the streets outside had heard it. Soon they would come running and…no, that was ridiculous. This room was soundproofed so that one lesson would not interrupt another. He could have sung at the top of his voice without the sounds carrying more than a few feet down the hall.

For two hours, Erik fought the stiffness of his fingers, the weakness of his hands, and his own ignorance. He was only able to mimic the actions of the performers he observed. More than once he stood up in disgust, knocking over the piano stool and driving his fist into the (thankfully) padded wall. By the time he sulked from the room, he had identified several scales and chords. He had discovered the importance of fingering and hand position. He had even tapped out a few simple melodies. The raging fires in his musical soul were damped enough to give him a peaceful sleep. The rest of the opera remained undisturbed. No one came to oust him from the room. This piano and its voice were his.


	12. L'ingenue

The Opera house was also becoming his. Erik wound himself tighter and tighter into Opera affairs as the years passed. By the time he was fourteen, the managers had ceased to view his hauntings in such an innocuous light. They worried that the ghost would deprive them of their livelihood. Performers who met with his disapproval had never lasted long at the Opera house, but his practical jokes had turned darker. Victims heard malignant whispers echoing in their boudoirs, saw strange shadows following them in the hallways, and found letters on their pillows threatening catastrophe if they continued to sing in "The Phantom's" Opera.

One bumbling pianist began finding bones on his pillow each night after butchering a particularly delicate piece in Aida. After a few nights, it became apparent that the bones were finger bones. The young man packed up and called a hansom cab without asking leave of the managers or telling his friends goodbye. The local police were called, but abandoned the case when the bones turned out to be plaster pieces from a fake skeleton collecting dust in the props room.

For those few not frightened by simple tricks, Erik was not above using violence. Though his body had retained the appearance of near starvation, his wiry muscles were deceivingly well-developed by heavy labor in the lowest basement. He could move with perfect stealth; his victims never knew he was there until the rope tightened around their throats. His intent was not to kill, but to warn. A raw, red rope mark served that purpose admirably.

Though he did not love hurting people, neither did Erik feel sympathy for his victims. How would he have learned such? The cruelties of his short life had far outweighed the few kindnesses; there were few shining examples of compassion for him to draw from. As far as the young hermit was concerned, the value of a human being lay solely in his or her ability to produce or respond to music. Composers, musicians, and singers were his saints, the music was his god – the Opera Populaire, therefore, was his heaven. Is it any wonder he so closely guarded the rights of entry?

And, acting as guard, he was huddled in the narrow passage behind the managers' office the day the Swedish fiddler auditioned. When the first sweet sounds of Mozart's concerto pierced the thin paneling, Erik relaxed against the wall and closed his eyes. He had heard many performers set bow to string, but the muted passion of this performance spoke to him as a language. Erik heard the violinist's heart as the talented performer made the violin sing of a lifetime's sorrow and rapture. When the piece drew to a close Erik sighed profoundly, stood up and stretched_. I shall savor this artist's performances_, he thought. _This one will_…

For Erik, the world froze. The candle fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers and extinguished itself in its own wax between his feet. He placed his palms against the wall to steady himself. A child's voice, an angel's voice, wrapped him in soft wings and lifted him heavenward. He was stricken as he had not been since his first night in the Opera house, listening to his first symphony performance. If the end of the violinist's piece had inspired regret, the end of the Miserere Mei brought moisture to his eyes. _Sing again, Angel_, he silently begged, but the song was ended. He groped his way to a hallway panel and cautiously stepped out. Where was the person who possessed that amazing instrument?

Somewhere in his Opera house was an ingenue with a talent so great it was frightening. For a dizzying second he allowed himself to imagine his voice mingled with hers. Then he remembered that the voice belonged to an untaught child. When she was older, she would need a teacher with talents beyond those of the resident voice coaches. She would need someone with a talent to match hers who would teach her, not only to sing, but to cosset and preserve her voice. She would need _him_, but not for a few years. His voice was still in flux. He was still mastering the piano. Erik dodged back into the shadows seconds before a gossiping group of servants turned down his hallway. If he could prepare himself adequately, he could take her voice and make it his own instrument; he could shine through her like light through a stained glass window.


	13. Foreigners

It took Nils Daae a year to sell the land, teach Christine the rudiments of French (he marveled at how quickly she picked up the language), and make arrangements for an audition at the far-off Opera Populaire. This last required more effort than all the rest put together. Though the opera house was desperate for talented performers, he was an unknown farmer from a country that rarely registered in the French consciousness.

When all was in place, he and Christine made the arduous journey of several hundred miles to the nearest train station, and from there spent a week on a train, which deposited them in the bustling city of Paris. Nils hurried his daughter along, trying to shield her from the unsavory specters of city life; whores, beggars, and other riff-raff clogged the city streets. He flagged down a cab, and they piled in.

"Daddy, what are those women doing?"

"Something they oughtn't. Now, only speak French, ma chere. No one speaks anything else here."

"Desolee, Papa. Qu'est qu'elles font?"

"We aren't having this conversation, sweetie. Let's sing "Vogels van het bosje". Now, keep your pitch even."

The Opera Populaire loomed in front of the cab. Nils lifted his daughter to the sidewalk and pointed to the grand architecture, and the beautiful people going in and out. "If Papa plays very well, ma chere, we will go to live there and you will learn to sing on a great stage in front of hundreds of people who will all cheer for you."

Christine's eyes widened. She felt very clumsy in her rustic clothes and wooden shoes, which clopped so loudly on the marble entryway floor that she took them off and stood in her stocking feet. In stark contrast to the little girl's humility, her father walked in as though he already owned the place. He marched up to a young man in an usher uniform and said, "Where do I find the managers, sir? I'm set to audition today."

The usher looked at Nils' brown tweed, and his daughter's checked gingham and stifled a laugh. He spoke slowly, as though the blonde man was feeble as well as rustic. "Upstairs, _sir,_ and to the left. Third door. The one that says 'Managers' Office."

Nils ignored the usher's insolence and walked off as though he had been given the most respectful of treatment. He knew that his time would come in this place, and if his did not, his daughter's certainly would.

He knocked on the huge oaken door that said, as advertised, "Managers' Office." A smooth, refined voice from the inside bade them enter. Nils pushed the door open and pushed his suddenly reticent daughter through. Two huge desks of ebony sat on opposite sides of a luxuriously appointed room. Behind each desk sat a gentleman. They were both dressed in tux and tails and appeared to be entirely absorbed in some sort of paperwork.

"Excuse me, messieurs, but I have come to audition. And I'd request that you hear my daughter as well while we are here. Her talent dwarfs my own."

The gentleman on the left looked up and peered over his monocle.

"You're the Swedish chap, I suppose." said one.

"The fiddler from Sweden, eh? Alright. Do you know any Mozart?" began the other.

Again, Christine watched her father dismiss the snubbing and proceed with his plan as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. "Of course, monsieur, I know Mozart. _Any_ Mozart."

"Stop babbling, then, and play something," was the curt rejoinder.

Nils complied with pleasure. Talking, especially in his heavily accented French, was not where his strength lay. He pulled the violin from its case, lovingly rosined the bow, and played Mozart's first violin concerto, caressing each note tenderly. Christine's little heart swelled with pride as she watched her father's skill draw the snobby managers from their work. She watched as their eyes glazed and their jaws dropped. Their overbearing flippancy was gone, replaced by respectful deference. Her smile was broad enough to make her face ache, and when he finally lowered the bow, she ran to him and hugged him fiercely.

"You played that so good… no…"she corrected her French, "so…well, Daddy. That was wonderful!"

He looked up to the managers who were staring at him blankly. "Well, messieurs, would you like to let me play in your orchestra? Or would you like to call my daughter a liar?"

They were bold words, and if he had not just outplayed their finest musician, the boast would have landed him and his little poppet out in the street. As it was, Messieurs Debienne and Poligny stood and came forward as one to congratulate their new first chair violinist. Their eyes were far away, seeing the reviews this man would help create. And those reviews would bring more patrons. They were not the most musical of men, but they knew genius when they heard it. This was genius. And...and...had he said that his daughter's talent _dwarfed_ his own? Yes, as they recalled, that was exactly what he said. M. Poligny eyed the small girl clinging to her father's hand. He then cast a raised eyebrow at his partner, who nodded.

"Alright, sir. You have shown us that you have no small talent with the violin. Does your daughter play as well?"

"Ah no, monsieur. She sings." He gently pressed her forward. "Go ahead, Christine, mijn kleine zangvogel, sing a little tune for the gentlemen. They will enjoy hearing you. "

The tiny girl stepped forward and stood with her knees slightly bent, and her body relaxed. Her father had not told her what to sing for this audition. She felt warm inside knowing that he trusted her to pick the piece. She thought about this place, its large marble hallways and imposing curving staircases. It was a house of music, and music was holy. Obviously, then, the piece she picked would have to be holy, as well.

The two managers expected something childish or something absurdly adult, over-rehearsed and unnatural in a child's mouth. Maybe the girl would give them a sweet rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star or the love song from Carmen. The doubtful gazes of the managers melted into wonder as the first crystal strains of Allegri's Misrere Mei floated up from the little girl's thin chest. They looked to each other, disbelieving. Their eyes clearly asked, _"Where have these two been hiding?" _Nils could only smile. Christine had always been a joy and a wonder to him. Pride glowed in his eyes as he listened, as enchanted as anyone else in the room.

Nils' violin audition had stopped many passersby in their tracks. A small crowd was gathered outside the office, listening and whispering among themselves. It has just started to dissipate when a child's voice, like a cloud of spun silver, settled over them and drew them back. The whispers resumed, now focused on the miracle that was clearly going on in the managers office. When silence fell, they wandered off in pairs, still whispering. Messieurs Debienne and Poligny would have much to explain when they emerged.

Rural weddings were generally held outside in warm weather. A voice had to carry if the singer wished to be heard beyond the first few rows. Christine's voice carried well. In fact, it carried through the halls and passages immediately surrounding the managers' office with perfect clarity. No one who heard that voice remained untouched by it. In the crawlspace behind the mahogany walls a scurrying figure suddenly stopped and went rigid. Shivers of ecstasy coursed through it. A panel of the hallway wall slid to the side and a shadowed form stepped out. Unable to resist the siren call of the sweet little voice, Erik glided down the hall, from niche to niche, hoping to catch a glimpse of the possessor of that extraordinary instrument.


	14. Let Him In

After their resounding success, Christine and her father were escorted to Madame Giry, responsible for the Opera's "household" affairs, and housemother for the young girls in the ballet corps. She was a bustling, motherly woman whose comfortable manner immediately set the foreigners at their ease. When M. Poligny delivered Christine and Nils to her care, he gushed over the excellent audition, and gave her to understand that the gentleman was to have a suite of his own, and that the girl could stay with her father, if they wished, or she could go to the dorms with the dancers.

"Adieu, Monsieur Premier Violinist. You shall receive your music tomorrow, sir. Bonne nuit, petite fille, you may become a great woman someday!"

Nils bowed deeply, truly grateful for their recognition of his talent. Christine curtsied, calling "Bon nuit, monsieur! Dormez-vous bien!" She thought M. Poligny the nicer of the two, but was reserving judgement for a less exciting day. She felt a warm, soft hand squeeze her shoulder and looked up into the smiling face of Mme. Giry.

"Now then, will you stay with your father, or shall I find you a nice little bed in the dorm with the other girls?" asked the good lady, gently. The child looked absolutely fatigued. Men were apt to forget the limits of children when their minds were otherwise occupied.

"I'd like to stay with my Daddy, please, Madame," replied Christine, gravely. "Since mother went to sing in heaven, he has to have someone to take care of him and make sure he's good."

Equally gravely, Mme Giry looked to Nils. "Is this so, monsieur? You need this little woman around to make sure you behave?"

He laughed and nodded. "She does keep me busy, and busy hands have little time for dishonest work."

Mme. Giry nodded sagely. "Then let me show you to your rooms. No doubt you are both tired from your long travels. I will have some dinner brought to you." She led them through the labyrinthine halls, taking lefts and rights seemingly at random. Christine kept up with the first several turns, but was completely lost when Mme Giry stopped at an ornate oak door. She took a key from the heavy iron hoop at her waist, unlocked the door and handed the key to Nils.

"You are in Suite 42, monsieur. Should you get lost, ask anyone and they'll bring you back here." Noticing their bewildered stares, she clucked sympathetically. "Don't worry, dears. This place may seem confusing at first, but it will feel small enough in time. Now good night. Rest well; you shall be very busy in the morning."

She started to walk away, a thousand tasks related to the bringing in of a new performer on her mind, but pulled up short. Her false front of curls bounced as she fairly jogged back to the two who still stood in the doorway of their suite. She had forgotten something very important that any newcomer to the Opera needed to know.

"Listen to me, now, dears. This Opera house is a beautiful place and you will be very happy here - as long as you keep one thing in mind. The Phantom of the Opera haunts these halls! If what M. Poligny said of your talents is true, you will have nothing to fear from him, but you should still be aware that he is always near. He hears everything. He sees everything. Take care not to offend him, dears. Now, goodnight again. I am behind schedule!"

Her skirts swished loudly as she barreled down the hall to her next task. Christine and Nils looked at each other bemusedly. The Phantom of the Opera? How would one go about offending an Opera ghost?

Nils smiled reassuringly at his daughter. "If there is a Phantom of the Opera, mijn zangvogel, he would be honored to have you in his demesnes. I don't think either of us has anything to fear here."

They had only just finished settling in, when a sharp knock on the door made them both jump. Nils called for the visitor to come in. No one replied. He shared a look with Christine.

"Who do you think that might be, Christine?" A playful smiled danced in his bright blue eyes.

"It must be the Ghost, Papa." She returned his grin.

"Well then, my dear, what do you think we should do?"

"Don't you know it is rude to keep a ghost waiting at the door? Let him in!" She was not afraid of ghosts – her father would banish any evil spirit, probably with his violin bow.

Nils went to the door and made a great show of slowly turning the handle and peeking through the crack in the door. The delicious aroma of a savory meal wafted in as soon as he opened the door. There were many covered silver dishes, a carafe of wine, a carafe of water, and a pretty set of china plates and bowls. An eager inspection revealed a delicious four course meal, cooked in the finest French tradition. As Nils served up thick slices of fresh bread and soft cheese, he felt compelled to alter his earlier statement.

"I don't think either of us has anything to fear from this Phantom, except the loss of our waistlines…" Christine would have laughed, but her mouth was too full.

Erik slipped away, satisfied that he had pleased his pet family. It had been no small feat to assemble the meal and wrestle the cart through the narrow passageways. The sound of the seven-year-old's giggle floated down the hall, and infected him with a peculiar warmth.


	15. Family

Nils was introduced to the orchestra conductor immediately after breakfast the next morning. Christine wanted to accompany her father, but was told that there were some things adults had to do alone. Mme. Giry assured her that her father was well equipped to handle this particular challenge on his own.

"But there are other things you can do here, my dear," the old lady reassured her young charge. "Would you like, perhaps, to come watch the dancers? If you are a good girl, I will introduce you to my daughter, Meg who is about your age. Doesn't that sound like more fun than watching some old men talking business?"

Given these options, Christine kissed her father and ran off to join Mme. Giry. She held the older lady's hand and chattered incessantly in her rough French as they walked down the corridors.

"Are the dancers all pretty? I've never seen a ballet before." Without giving the good Madame a moment to reply, she continued. "Is Meg a nice girl? I hope so. You are nice. Maybe she will help me with my French…it is so bad!"

The ballet corps practiced every week day for an hour and a half in the morning and an hour and a half in the afternoon. In between practices, they attended lessons on reading, writing, mathematics, history, and the two languages most common to the Opera - German and Italian. Christine watched the morning dance practice and murmured under her breath, "I wish I could dance as they do. They look so pretty in their little skirts!"

Mme. Giry patted her shoulder and whispered, "I've talked to the managers, dear, and I think they would prefer you joined the chorus." The little girl's face fell. "But don't worry, you can't perform at all as a singer until you are fifteen years old. Those are house rules designed to keep young people's voices safe from overuse. We wouldn't want you to damage your voice, now, would we? I have heard so much about it. Until then you are welcome to come and dance with the older girls."

After dance practice, Mme Giry introduced Christine to the gaggle of cooing older girls. They immediately decided to adopt the pretty girl as their collective little sister. Christine happily agreed to this, considering it meant she was suddenly surrounded by family instead of strangers.

Meg, a sprightly eleven year old, took her hand and solemnly asked, "Have you not met M. Le Fantome yet?"

Christine gazed back at her just as seriously.

"As a matter of fact, M. le Fantome cooked my supper last night." She smiled sweetly, enjoying the boisterous laughter her joke elicited. She searched for words in her limited French, "It was very good of taste. Much better than Swedish food. Perhaps I shall have him over for tea this afternoon. Only I do not know – shall I serve baguettes or schnitzel?"

Having acquired their new 'pet', the girls were reluctant to let her go. With the kind permission of Mme Giry, Christine sat in on a reading lesson. She took a reader and did her best to read the French fairy tale along with the other girls. Considering that she was four years the junior of the youngest girl in the class and had only begun to learn French the year before, she kept pace with the others very well.

Writing posed more of a challenge. These girls had already learned to write in fancy looping letters they called "script", while Christine only knew block printing. Her clumsy attempts made the more sophisticated students giggle, but Meg leaned close to her ear and whispered, "It's not as though _they_ write so much better. We've only been at this for a few months!"

As suppertime drew near, Meg shepherded Christine back to her suite, where her father was waiting. Mme Giry declared that Meg was as trustworthy as any lady on the premises (more so than some!) and would do very well as escort and protectress. She left Christine at her father's door with a hug and a promise to accompany her to classes the following day.

Meg found that she liked the younger girl quite well. The child was more mature than most of the girls in the ballet corps. Her demeanor was quieter, and when she did speak her voice was musical, lilting delicately with the Swedish accent. Meg felt that she would enjoy getting to know the little singer who had caused such a stir among the adults.

Nils was sitting in the parlor, absently playing etudes while he waited for his daughter's return. He was ready for the unsophisticated pleasure of her innocent company. Playing in the symphony for the Opera Populaire was his dream, but even sweet dreams can have moments of discomfort. The lead violinist, Francois Gasquet, had been understandably upset at his demotion and huffed angrily off the stage when asked to surrender his seat. Several of the other musicians had cast distrustful or even resentful glances at the countrified violinist. Maestro Reyeurre was more gracious, but mentioned curtly that the sudden change of lead violinists might threaten the quality of the upcoming production.

Faust was a complex Opera, the Maestro explained, critically featuring the violin. If Nils could not prepare the piece in time, he would simply have to step aside and allow M. Gasquet to play. Nils nodded, took his seat, set his music, and tucked his violin under his chin. The piece they were working on was not in his repertoire, but it felt comfortable as he played through it. Several hours later, as the orchestra disbanded for lunch, the Maestro approached him. "My dear Monsieur. Welcome to my orchestra!" By the time everyone packed up their instruments to go home, Nils had won even the grudging respect of M. Gasquet.

It had been a day of triumphs, indeed. He grinned happily, imagining Christine's pride in her Daddy's accomplishments. Almost on cue, his little zangvogel walked through the door. She ran to side, pulling his sleeve to make him turn and look.

"Daddy! See what I learned today!" She thrust her practice sheets into his lap so he could see her efforts at script, then began glissading and pirouetting around the room with seven-year-old abandon.

Nils laughed and scooped his daughter into a tight hug. "That's lovely, ma petite, but you mustn't forget to sing now and again." She stared at him as though he had reminded her to breathe now and again.

"I'm hungry. Will they bring the cart to our rooms again tonight, do you think?"

"I think that was a one night only performance, cherie. Let's go to the dining room and join everyone else. Did you make any friends today?"

"Yes. I met Meg. She has a funny name, but she's very nice. And there was Antoinette, and Giselle, and Karin who can already do some pointe dancing…" Christine prattled on happily as she and her father wended their way towards the refectory. Neither she nor Nils noticed that they were being shadowed.

Erik moved with light, catlike steps, staying several yards behind the pair. The way they moved together drew him to them, despite the danger of being caught in the open. The way her little hand often rose to clutch her father's sleeve, the way his eyes sparkled with pride when he looked down at her bobbing, curly head; these things at once lit a warm glow in his chest and gnawed painfully at the pit of his stomach. In a moment of weakness, Erik dared to imagine himself walking to Nils' left. He imagined a fatherly hand on his shoulder, the occasional proud fatherly glance like the ones he cast over his little daughter. After dinner, he and Christine would sing while Nils accompanied them…

Approaching footsteps shook Erik from his reverie and reminded him that there were consequences to being seen. Too late, he slipped down a corridor and found one of his secret panels. The valet stopped dead at the sight of a masked and cloaked figure rounding the corner.

"The Opera Ghost! Look! He is here!" yelped the boy.

Christine and her father whirled around to regard the empty hallway. The valet ran to the corridor and skidded to a halt, dumbfounded. There was no one. The corridor was empty, yet he had heard no door open or close. The young valet bowed apologetically to the startled father and daughter, but his eyes were shining with excitement.

"I am sorry, Monsieur, Mademoiselle, but I have seen the Ghost just now. I saw his face…or his lack of a face!"

Christine and Nils looked at the man, and then to one another, warily. What sort of practical joke was this? Did every new addition to the Opera Populaire get teased with this mythical Phantom? Nils shrugged and led his daughter one way as the valet ran another. He was making a beeline for the servants' hall to spread the news among his contemporaries.

Every step of his walk home, Erik upbraided himself bitterly. He had stood there, daydreaming, and let himself be seen. Worse, he had almost been seen by the subjects of his reverie. And the worst yet was that the peculiar feeling born of that daydream was blooming uncomfortably in his mind. Until this day, all Erik desired was the seclusion of his lake home and puppet-mastery over the opera house. People believed he was a ghost, and he was more than content to allow them that fantasy.

Now though, the loneliness of his life surrounded him in a cold, choking fog. He barely saw the completed body of his pipe organ with the disconnected pipes arrayed around it by pitch. He was supposed to spend the evening working on the instrument, but now had little care for the task. After a few silent moments staring at his wavering reflection in the black lake water, he wandered off to practice singing. Christine would never take him as her teacher if he were out of practice.

The servant spread his tale to anyone who would listen, which was most everyone. Tales of the Opera Ghost were savored by the dramatic community of actors, singers, and musicians. It gave their lives savor and interest. Until now, the ghost was described as a dark, swirling shadow, or a feeling of cold, malevolent evil. The valet took great pleasure in knocking aside both descriptions.

"He was all hunched over, but if he hadn't been, he would have been tall. He wore a gentleman's cloak and hat, but under that…" here he always took a dramatic pause, though his listener may have heard him five times before, "_no face_! He has only a white masquerade mask! And he did not _run_ down the hall, he _glided_, and then he was just… gone. But he was following M. Daae and his little girl, as though he meant to pounce on them. It's a good thing I happened to see him, or who knows what might have happened!"

Normally, Erik listened to stories of the Opera Ghost with a macabre interest, but the idea that he had been stalking Nils and Christine with ill intent was simply abhorrent to him. _They should know by now_, he thought angrily, _I only do what I do for the good of the Opera_. There was little he could do about it now, though. Perhaps it was time to make himself known to one of the staff and spread a few rumors of his own.


	16. A Trusty Servant

That Monday evening, Mme Giry woke to an unearthly voice echoing through her bed chamber. She quickly decided that she was either dreaming or going mad, and stuck her fingers in her ears. Though the sound was muted, she could still hear it calling her name. It was beginning to sound irritated.

After a moment, she sat up straight, summoned her courage and answered, tremulously. "Who is there, and what do you want?"

There was a pause, followed by a low chuckle. At first, the sound seemed to come from the corner beside the window, but when the voice spoke again it seemed to issue from the chair directly beside her bed.

"_I am the Opera Ghost, Madame," _it whispered huskily, "_and I want your services. We may be useful to one another, you and I."_

"If you're hiding and playing tricks on me, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for violating the privacy of a lady's bedroom." Mme Giry courageously jumped up from her bed and began searching the corners, behind the drapes, and beneath the bed frame.

"_Giry, you try my patience. And that is a very unhealthy thing to do ." _The growling voice spoke directly in her ear. _"Now sit and listen!"_

It was too much for the good lady. She sunk down on her divan, made the sign of the cross, and repeated a few "Our Fathers".

"_Thank you. I am pleased with the way you direct the affairs under your jurisdiction, but I am not pleased that my needs have been so ungraciously overlooked."_

"Wh-what needs, monsieur?" In her current state, Mme. Giry could not begin to imagine what sorts of needs a ghost might have.

"_Now you are being sensible. I wish to watch the Opera in comfort. See to it that a box is reserved for me each night."_

"The managers would nev…"

"_To Hell with the managers! If they cannot comply, I will see to it that we have new managers." _The voice was filled with ire, but suddenly subsided back to its original calm tone. "_I think box five would suit my needs best. Also, you will quell these rumors that are being spread about me. It is really best that the ignorant not discuss things of which they have no knowledge. Oh, and speaking of the ignorant; I will be employing you as my messenger to the managers, once I have given them proof of my existence. I do not gladly suffer fools. Your reward will come with time, if you serve me faithfully. Can you do these things? Or must I lose my temper…" _The voice moved around the room as though the speaker were impatiently pacing about.

Halfway through this speech, Mme. Giry resigned herself to the idea that she really was speaking to a ghost. To THE Ghost. She fervently wished M. Le Fantome had chosen anyone else to reveal himself to, but as he had chosen her she supposed there was little to do but obey him. Considering the feats attributed to him in the past, including the terrifying ordeal of the bumbling pianist, he she did not doubt his will or ability to follow through on any threats or promises made.

"I will do my best, Monsieur Ghost. I need little in the way of rewards, but if you would consider the welfare of my little Meg, I'd be most grateful._" _It was a bold move to ask anything of the strange voice, she knew, but if the Ghost could truly dole out rewards, then her fondest wishes were for her daughter's success, not her own.

"_Consider it done. Madame, it was a pleasure to deal with you. Bonne nuit."_

Silence echoed in the little room. After a few moments, Mme Giry decided it was safe to rise from the divan, but she did not go to bed. Instead, she made her way to the staff kitchens and partook of a glass of sherry. Her nerves had calmed a bit by the time she swished the last rich swallow between her teeth, but she was far from deciding this was all a bad dream. She would reserve Box 5 as requested. How to stop the staff from gossiping about the Ghost was beyond her, though. She looked to the corner of her room where her walking stick leaned innocently against the wall. Well, there at least was _one_ idea…

Erik returned to his lakeside home satisfied with the night's accomplishments. Giry was a good, sturdy woman in his estimation. Though her official title was Housekeeper, her actual duties and importance went well beyond that. The managers, drat them, would give her some trouble with regards to his requests unless he could convince them that it lay in their best interest to look the other way. With a deep sigh he bent over his desk with the fine-nibbed fountain pen he had taken and began his letter to the managers.

_Dear Messieurs…_


	17. A Quiet Tragedy

Christine's father became a legend in a mere two and a half years. Word of his virtuosity spread and fulfilled the managers' dreams of greater reviews, greater fame, and a greater reputation. Privately, though, the man had finally begun to fall to the quiet killer that had lived dormant in his body since his wife's illness. The ache of his chest when he coughed, the creeping fatigue, and the night sweats forced him to admit that his time as the legendary first chair violinist of the Opera Populaire was drawing to a close. He also realized that he could not stay at the Opera Populaire any longer.

The disease that was killing him was an effluvia. It could spread to others by the vapor of his breath. He would have to go to the sanitarium. _It is good_, he thought, _that the managers heard Christine audition._ She had proven her future worth to the opera house and would have a home even when he was no longer there to care for her. Hopefully, the money he had saved from his generous salary would help convince the managers to let Christine keep this same suite of rooms and their furnishings.

Christine was nine years old now, and had made herself much beloved among the denizens of the Opera house. Her French had smoothed and become quite natural, though she would always carry a slight Swedish lilt. She was too young to either dance or sing onstage, but she was often called upon to perform for the House at parties and other gatherings. Twice, she had sung in the chapel to the delight of all the parishioners.

Meg was her constant companion. The two girls were a common sight, running and giggling in the hallways and generally getting underfoot. Meg was not a singer; her voice was "flat as a pancake and not nearly as interesting" according to Christine. Likewise, Christine danced as though "she had learned from the drunken stable boys, and never practiced." They considered themselves very lucky that Christine could sing while Meg danced.

"Otherwise," laughed Christine, "we should have to play with dolls and knit, like other little girls."

One night, Nils called Christine into the parlor after dinner. His voice was ragged from coughing all day; his face was waxy and tired looking. Christine knew he was sick, had known for a long time, though she carefully avoided thinking about how similar his symptoms were to her mother's. She tried, as she had tried with her mother, to lessen the impact of his illness. She made sure he wore warm clothes when it was damp; she made him eat three meals and tea every day. Only in the last few months had her father worsened so much that neither of them could avoid the issue any longer. She tried to pretend that she didn't hear the "serious talk" tone in his voice.

"What is it, Daddy? Do you need your slippers? Or some tea?"

"No, cherie. We have to talk about something very serious. Come here and sit beside me." He punctuated his sentences with dry, clacking coughs. When his daughter had perched on the footstool near him, he continued. "You know I'm sick, and I think you also understand that I have the same illness your mother had. That means I will most likely not get better."

Christine bit her lip and looked studiously at her hands. She didn't want to talk about this, and she didn't want to hurt her father's feelings by crying in front of him. If they didn't talk about it, it didn't have to be true, and she wouldn't need to cry. The careful look of voluntary ignorance did not pass her father's scrutiny. In truth, Nils sympathized with his daughter's desire to pretend nothing was happening, but if he allowed her to ignore this reality, she would be completely unprepared when the inevitable happened.

"That also means that, to be safe, I will be moving…" he paused. Christine hadn't cried since the day of her mother's funeral, he didn't want her to start tonight. "I'll be going to the sanitarium."

"But Daddy! I can take better care of you right here than they…"

"No arguments, now. It's safer for you, and it's safer for everyone who lives here. They tell me the sanitarium is a very nice place, with gardens and nurses who bring your dinner on trays. You may come and visit me on Sundays. We'll go walking together, and you can tell me all about how you are enjoying life here and becoming a great lady of the stage."

"I don't want to stay here without you. And what will Maestro do? Gasquet sounds like his fingers are numb, compared to you. Maestro will be angry. He may not let us do Faust without you. How would you like it if Faust were cancelled!"

If her eyes hadn't held such pleading misery, Nils would have laughed at the absurd excuses. As it was, he gathered her in his arms and made the promise that would haunt her dreams for years, "Courage, mijn kleine zangvogel, if I could, I would stay with you forever. But I promise you, if you study hard and practice everyday, I will send the Angel of Music from Heaven, and he will give your voice wings."

Christine felt her eyes flooding. She didn't want any Angel of Music, she wanted her father. She returned his hug, but instead of clinging to him, she disengaged herself and walked to her little room, where she proceeded to pull the covers over her head and silently cry herself to sleep. In the next room, her father pressed his hands to his eyes, feeling the fever that burned there. He could not follow his daughter to comfort her. He was simply too weak. In a way, he thought miserably, that was a good thing. He would not be there to comfort her in the future; she would have to rely on her own strength.

In the tiny compartment behind the gilded full-length mirror in the parlor of the suite, Erik knelt with his fists pressed to the wall, his eyes closed, and his mind awhirl. He had listened to the entire exchange and was wrestling with conflicting emotions. On the one hand, his heart ached for these two people with whom he had come to feel a kinship. He knew what it was to lose the only person on Earth who cared for you. On the other hand, Christine's father had just unwittingly handed him the key to his daughter's confidence. _The Angel of Music_! It was a role for which he was peculiarly suited. It would make her happy and she wouldn't question his existence; after all, her father had promised her.

Erik watched the man sit in his old leather chair, quietly playing a sorrowful tune on his violin. _I will take care of your little songbird, Monsieur, _he vowed. _No one will harm her. _Having made this promise, he dragged himself away from the pitiful scene. There was work to be done.


	18. He Asks So Little

Many people find that when their luck has run out, so have their friends. Not so for the Daae family. Maestro Reyeurre bargained with M.Poligny and M.Debienne for Christine's right to stay in Nils' suite without any payments on Nils' part. His orchestra had profited greatly from the two years Nils played for them. His reputation drew other talented musicians who enriched the brass and strings sections. The orchestra could almost rest on its own laurels now, without Nils, but the Maestro was an honorable man who felt his debts keenly. He and Mme Giry were adamant that she should be allowed to stay in the suite she had shared with her father.

Despite their arguments, the good Messieurs came very close to insisting that Christine move into the dormitory with the other girls. They announced their intentions as such, and then stormed off to their office. A few hours later they emerged, pale and shaking.

Erik normally communicated with the managers via letters or Mme Giry. Because they had never seen him, innate French skepticism caused the managers to doubt that M le Fantome was "real." They had always assumed that some member of their staff was responsible for all the accidents and mishaps that plagued the less talented residents of the Opera house. They were no longer under any such illusions.

They marched into their office, complaining about their upstart staff. It was not, however, their staff who greeted them within. An eerie voice, low and hypnotic, sounded from every corner of the lavish office.

"A pity..." it boomed. Poligny and Debienne froze. Debiene clutched Poligny's sleeve convulsively. "Such a pity. I had hoped the two of you might go on managing _my _Opera house."

M. Poligny tried to regain his composure. "Who..." he squawked, then tried again, "who is in this office. Show yourself!"

"You do not know me, Messieurs?" A low chuckle, as sinister a sound as either man had ever heard, emitted from the walls. "But of course you know me. And you _surely_ know that I will not stand for such barbarism!" The voice rose in power and volume. M. Poligny resisted the urge to cover his ears; M Debienne did not.

Inside the wall, Erik lifted a heavy lever, dropping all four paintings adorning the office walls to the floor.

M. Debienne turned to his partner, revealing a face as pasty white as fresh-washed linen. "Don't you think, perhaps, that arrangements could be made for the child could stay in her apartents?"

M. Poligny stared at the cracked frame of his favorite landscape. He cleared his throat. "She is a nine-year-old girl with no guardian. How can she possibly..."

"Paintings," murmured the disembodied voice, "are not the only things that chance to fall from high places. And, truly, I do not ask so very much."

Poligny exploded. "Fine! Fine! Let her stay there, then. Turn one of our finest suites into a nursery! But someone must be responsible for her. I will not have little girls running wild in the Opera house without governance."

M. Debienne nodded energetically in agreement. "It really is a small request."

The two men waited, but there was no response. The Phantom was satisfied. He cared little for specifics.

Mme Giry tried to feel sorry for the two men shaking in their custom tailored shoes, but found herself suppressing a smile. M. le Phantom was often a demanding master, but in this case he was in the right. She was only too glad to agree when the managers asked her to act as guardian of the little girl in her father's absence. Monsieur Daae was leaving this very afternoon for the sanitarium, but those who saw him weakly board the hansom cab knew that he would not last long, even with the expert care of sanitarium doctors and nurses. Mme Giry told him of the arrangements and smiled at the relieved look that settled across his features. That this matronly woman would care for his daughter made his departure easier.

After Nils' hansom cab left, all Christine would talk about were the promised Sunday visits. When Meg asked her if she had finished her assignments for geometry, she would respond that she had finished it, but hoped that Madame would let her keep the papers after checking them, so she could show her triangles to her father. If Mme Giry took her to get fitted for a new dress, she agonized over whether her father would rather see her in blue or white.

Christine's Sunday visits were restricted to one hour by the rules of the sanitarium. In truth, this was the best thing for the girl. It gave her less time to watch her father die. Though the grounds were beautifully landscaped as advertised, Nils never had the chance to take her for walks. His condition warranted 24 hour bedrest. For the hour Christine was there each Sunday, he was allowed to sit up, wrapped in lap rugs and soft blankets, on the room's comfortable love seat. Nils played his beloved violin while she sang to him. Though the staff objected on the grounds that he might damage his fragile health, their complaints faded to silence once the music began. They couldn't help standing outside the doorway, along with all the patients capable of independent movement.

During these times, Nils felt almost well, and Christine could easily pretend they were at home, playing for the Opera dinner audience. The doctors claimed for years after that their cure rate spiked while the Swedes made their musical magic. The nurses were certain that the visits were as good as medicine for Nils, who outlived their expectations by nearly six months. Everyone concerned was amazed that the child did not contract the disease, as both her parents had. When they discussed this with her father, he speculated that she was watched over by angels.

He wasn't entirely wrong. Christine was watched over by an Angel of sorts. Erik had begun to study her, as he had studied the chapel pipe organ and the little practice room piano. She had just passed her tenth birthday; he, his seventeenth. Her voice was still that of a child, but it had begun to show the subtle signs of maturation: breathiness and a slight deepening. He noted her study habits, her practice habits, her moods, her likes and dislikes. Everything would be critical when it came time to speak to her as her Angel of Music. There was one limit to Erik's prying, however. As a matter of decency and principle, he never looked in on her when she was in her bedroom.


	19. Vengeance

It was during this "research" that Erik overheard two of the older girls from the ballet corps whispering with one another. At first, he assumed it was typical girlish drabble, but the frightened tones in their voices gave him pause. They were talking about something that had happened to one of their fellow dancers.

"He even gave her a necklace that he said was real pearl! But he told her that if she told anyone about 'them' he'd strangle her with it" said the dark haired one he identified as Lise.

"Well, she told _you,_" the red haired girl, Cara, pointed out. "And she's not dead yet. She should tell Mme Giry."

"I don't think Mme Giry could do anything about it. The managers never believe anyone about things like this. They think everything is a made-up story. He's the best of the stage crew; he never misses a performance. Besides, you're the only person _I've_ told. I don't want his attention! You should hear the things she says he makes her do." Lise shivered and wrinkled her delicate nose. "She wants to go home to her mother, but she thinks he's taking all her letters before they go out."

"Annette wants to go home? But she's the best of us, next to Meg, and Meg's still too young to dance on stage. Her mother won't let her." Cara's voice was full of disbelief.

"I'd want to go home, too, if he put his hands on me like that. It's disgusting. He's so _old_." Lise paused to consider something. "And you know who else she says he likes? The little one with the voice. Christine. The one whose father went away to the sanitarium."

Both girls stopped dead when the wall to their right suddenly issued several loud thumps. The echoing sound of running feet slowly faded and fell silent before they dared move.

"It was the Opera ghost," whispered Cara. "He was listening."

Normally timid Lise crossed her arms over her chest and defiantly lifted her chin. "Good. I hope it _was_ the Opera Ghost, and I hope he haunts Thomas and scares him to death." With that damning statement, she linked her hand through Cara's and the two walked off to rehearsal together.

Erik ran down the passageway aimlessly until his mind cleared. This was outrageous. Thomas was one of the newer members of the stage crew. Cara was right; he never missed a performance, and his work was of excellent caliber. But he was putting his hands on members of Erik's ballet corps, and was apparently a threat to Christine!

The thought of anyone laying a finger on his perfect instrument caused his stomach to roil. Was there time to use his usual tricks and frighten this poor excuse for pond slime out of the Opera? If he did frighten him away, wouldn't Thomas just pick some other little girl? Another girl like Christine, or like Leslie. And how dare anyone threaten one of his dancers with strangulation!

As he grew angrier, Erik's thoughts turned darker. What did Thomas know of strangling? He'd probably never even killed his own chicken for dinner. Erik allowed his thoughts to wander back to that last birthday at the fair. Herroux' unseeing eyes stared back at him from the depths of memory. If Thomas wanted strangling done, then Erik could oblige him.

_Just let me catch him doing anything he ought not, _Erik decided. He wouldn't kill a man on the gossip of two dancing girls. _For his sake, and mine, I hope it's all idle chatter…_

It did not take extensive investigation to find evidence to corroborate Lise's story. Three days later, Erik crouched in the catwalks, watching the ballet corps practice their blocking on the main stage, while the stagehands built the elaborate set for _Le Nozze di Figarro. _As the girls trouped offstage, a hand reached out and snatched the wrist of a particularly pretty fifteen year old dancer. She protested only a little, and was pulled behind a large piece of scenery depicting most of a building's wall. The rest would be painted on by the end of the day.

From his vantage point, Erik watched Thomas pull the girl close to him and kiss her obscenely. She was wearing a pearl necklace, further confirming the veracity of the girls' conversation. Thomas' free hand began to wander from her face down the bodice of her dress. Nauseated by the spectacle, Erik found he could watch no longer. A moment's work sent a sandbag crashing down dangerously close to the two, causing Thomas to let go of his prey and look up. The moment her tormentor's hand loosened its bruising grip on her wrist, Annette bolted from the stage.

Thomas leapt to follow her, but drew up short when a loop of rope dropped over his head, then pulled tightly around his neck. Tension on the rope drew the choking man up to his tiptoes, his hands gripped the rope in a futile effort to pull it away from his windpipe. As he struggled to gain his footing and win back his breath, a white-masked specter dropped from the catwalks, the tail of the rope in his hands. The Opera Ghost calmly bent to tie the rope end to a nearby anchor.

Erik impassively watched the man twist at the end of the rope for a moment. Thomas' face was deep red, quickly turning scarlet. Erik noted this, then stalked over to his dangling victim.

"You have violated a boundary no man should cross. Worse yet, you did it in _my Opera House_ where i am judge and executioner. I declare you guilty, and your punishment - obviously- is death. But before you die, look upon the face of the demons who will scourge you in the hereafter…" Erik ripped the mask from his face and grinned maniacally as Thomas' eyes bulged in abject horror.

Erik waited until Thomas' body hung limp before replacing his mask. He wrapped his cloak tightly around himself as he shuffled towards the hidden doorway that would take him home. Silence accompanied him down the long, sloping hallways and into the dark chill of his sanctuary. He knelt on the hard stone flagging and retched. His dispassionate veneer was dissolved, leaving a very frightened seventeen year old boy to face the reality of murder. This had not been self-defense.

The voices of his past, buried for so long in his music, swirled up around him, taunting him. _"You oughtn't keep him at all…Devil's Child..." _He didn't want to be that creature. He was Hannah's Erik, who sang like there was an angel stuck in his throat.

"I'm a killer, a true monster." He whispered, his voice hoarse from vomiting. "How can a demon play Angel to Christine?"

Erik's eyes widened as he remembered a Catholic tradition. Penance. He would find some way to atone for the evil he had done. What could possibly atone for a murder, no matter how foul the victim? Now his own voice echoed in his ears, "_look upon the face of the demons…" _he finished the rest aloud, a sick smile curling his lips, "who will scourge you in the hereafter." Candle in hand, he crawled to the edge of the lake. In the soft glow of candlelight he removed his mask and, for the first time in his life, looked himself in the face.


	20. Reflective Surfaces

Five levels above, Thomas' body was found by the rest of the stage crew. Pandemonium broke out. Whether this was suicide or murder, none of the superstitious stage crew wanted to touch the dangling, black-visaged corpse. After summoning the police, Messieurs Debienne and Poligny promptly shut down the Opera Populaire, all the while bemoaning the refunds and rain checks they would have to issue to disappointed patrons. To dispel whispers of what sort of curses afflicted places where such an atrocity had been committed, the chapel priest blessed the stage and all those who had worked with Thomas that morning. He did not, however, speak any words over Thomas. The general assumption was that he had committed suicide. When the police came to cut down the body and write their reports, suicide was ruled the cause of death.

All residents of the Opera not involved in the investigation were asked to stay to their quarters. In the dormitories most of the girls were treating this as a welcome holiday. They cared little for Thomas, or any of the stage crew. They preferred to giggle over the young tenors and baritones in the men's chorus. Three of the young women, though were huddled together in the bay window, whispering among themselves with tense faces. They dismissed other girls who tried to join them with a curt, "We have a serious secret to discuss. Let us be."

When the news of Thomas' death reached the ballet corps, Lise and Cara gave each other frightened knowing looks. They knew Thomas' death was no suicide. Similarly, Annette flushed and began to tremble, remembering the mysteriously dropped sandbag. When Lise and Cara pulled her into the bay window and told the story of their conversation and the ghostly sounds in the wall, all three girls arrived at the same conclusion simultaneously. The Opera Ghost had decided to protect the ballet corps in a most gruesome way.

"He killed him," whispered Lise, "and I doubt he let him confess or said anything over him before he did it."

Annette's normally gentle eyes flashed fiercely. "I hope he did. I hope that...that _brute _enjoys Hell."

"Shouldn't we tell someone what we know? I mean, some adult? I don't want to be the only ones who know…" She met the other girls' incredulous stares with equal intensity. "Do _you_ want to carry this secret around?"

They considered that for a moment. A man was dead, and they alone knew who the killer was. This really was a matter beyond their young sensibilities.

Annette sighed harshly. "If we tell, we have to tell _why_ M. le Phantom killed him." She spoke the Opera Ghost's appellation respectfully. "And I don't want anyone to know. It's…" she couldn't continue.

"Let's at least tell Mme Giry," suggested Lise. "She'll know what to do. Even if she doesn't believe us, we'll have done our part by telling."

Cara and Annette nodded. The three girls got up and trooped off to find their trusted house mother.

Mme Giry heard the girls out, trying not to allow her rising unease to show on her face. She had suspected that someone was ill-treating Annette, but could never get the reserved girl to reveal her tormentor's identity. Now she knew. She also knew that the girls' story was likely true. The possessive Opera Ghost who thrust himself so invasively into the affairs of the opera house would be understandably outraged at such behavior. Silently, she congratulated the Phantom for ridding the world of a man who would prey on defenseless young girls. _But,_ she thought, _such a gruesome death? Was it necessary? _

When the girls were finished with their story, she smiled reassuringly at each of them. "You were right to come to me with this. Annette, I wish you had come sooner. We could have saved you a lot of pain, dear. It wasn't your fault at all." Madame hugged the girl tightly. "Now, as to this business of the Opera Ghost, I think this is where your story needs to stop. I believe you are correct concerning the noises in the walls. M. le Phantom has apparently seen fit to protect you in his own way. I think you have little to fear from him, and much to be grateful for. Even if the managers or police believed you, they would only try to hunt our Ghost down, which seems a sorry way to repay him, d'accord?"

Nodding heads signaled the girls' agreement. Annette piped up with her other concern, "And no one need know, Madame? Can this just be…over now? I still want to dance with the corps."

Madame Giry considered the girl's solemn eyes. Of course she wanted to move on with her life. If others knew what Thomas had done to her, she would never be able to regain her standing in the Opera Populaire. Even if others sympathized with her entirely, they would think of her in terms of the abuse she had suffered. The perpetrator was dealt with; there was no need to prolong the girl's torment.

"All right, Annette, but if anything happens again, you really must come to me. And all you girls, the Ghost prefers that his affairs remain his own. I think it would be wisest – and safest – to have no more discussion on the subject. Now, shoo! Go enjoy your holiday." With perfunctory curtsies, three relieved girls scampered off to join their friends.

Had Erik known any of this, it might have salved his torment. For once, though, he was not listening in on the affairs of the Opera Populaire. The sight of his face had sent him into a horrified torpor. So much of his life suddenly made a horrendous sort of sense. No longer could Erik hate his mother – how could any woman be expected to love such a child? And Herroux? He might have been cruel, but how else should one treat a monster? The villains of his past faded away, leaving only one behind – the Devil's Child.

Silently, doggedly, he held his discovery in the forefront of his mind as he collected bits and pieces of mirrors. Erik had become so single-minded that he arely took precautions to keep from being caught. Every other project was abandoned as he threw himself whole-heartedly into the painstaking construction of his torture chamber.


	21. Grief

Nils died on a Saturday, which meant that he died with only the sanitarium staff by his side. Most of them had come to love the soft-spoken man over the eight months he stayed with them; there was not a dry eye in the room when the doctor pronounced his long struggle ended. When his face was decently covered and his body wheeled from the room, the nurses began to studiously avoid one another's' eyes. Someone had to go to the Opera Populaire with a certain violin and tell a little girl that she was now an orphan.

Nurse Rechenard found herself shuffling along Rue Scribe, moving slowly to delay the unpleasant task. As much as the staff loved Monsieur Daae, they adored his little girl. She was always cheery. Her singing brought joy to a place where there was little to be joyful about. Several of the nurses wanted Mlle Rechenard to propose that Christine continue to sing for the patients - for a small fee. It might help the girl in times of need, when there was no one else to look out for her. Mlle Rechenard knew she could do no such thing. It would be hard enough to look the child in the eyes as it was.

The plump nurse asked for Christine at the front desk. She felt very out of place amidst a throng of fine people in evening wear. She had come just before the opening of a new operetta. When the usher heard the nurse's business, his normally haughty expression softened.

He murmured, "Of course, Mlle. If you will follow me, I will take you to her rooms."

Christine had just settled in the parlor to practice her scales when a knock sounded on the door. She ran happily to answer it, thinking Meg and Mme Giry had come to take her to the performance. When she saw Nurse Rechenard's sorrowful face and her father's black violin case with the silver pointings, she almost slammed the door on the poor woman.

Nils had reared his daughter well, though, and she forced herself to drop a small curtsy.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Please do come in." She stepped aside to allow the plump woman to pass through.

Nurse Rechenard looked around the small apartment as she followed the little girl to the parlor. Everything was in perfect order, not a single surface showed dust or smudges. The child had preserved everything just as it was before her father left. His raincoat and hat still hung on the coat rack. His slippers and rosin case sat on a little end table beside a cracked leather chair. She leaned the violin case carefully against this table as Christine prepare a plate of bread and cheese, then poured a small glass of wine.

Christine set the tray on the coffee table in front of the nurse. She then perched uneasily on the leather chair, her feet tucked up under her wool skirt.

"The wine is father's, Mademoiselle, but I don't think he'd mind my giving you a glass. The tea from lunch is cold," she apologized and gestured towards the plate. "Please try the havarti. It's delicious."

Nurse Rechenard took a slice of cheese and a piece of bread and held them, staring down at her hands while she tried to reformulate her plan. How could she pass on the dread information over wine and cheese? She set her food back down on the plate.

"Christine, dear, thank you for the food, but there is something I must tell you. Your father has been sick for a very long time, dear, and his illness had progressed beyond what the doctors could heal. This morning…" she swallowed hard over the lump that suddenly filled her throat, "this morning he passed on." She waited for the wailing, the hysterical outburst of denial.

No hysterics came. Christine sat very still, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her face was drained of all color except dark circles that appeared under her unblinking eyes. Nurse Rechenard had to look closely to be sure the little girl was breathing at all. "Dear? If you want to talk about it…"

Christine slid to the floor and padded across to stand next to the nurse. "When can I see him, Mademoiselle?" Her voice was low, barely a whisper, that Nurse Rechenard had to strain to hear over the popping of the hearth fire.

"You may see him at the funeral."

Christine continued, speaking as though each word was painful. "Won't there be a wake?"

"No. He requested that there not be a wake."

"When is the funeral?"

"Wednesday. It will be announced in tomorrow's paper. It will be quite an event, dear, if that makes you feel better. Your father was much loved."

"I know, Nurse. Thank you for coming to tell me. I would not have wanted to find out some other way. I am feeling very…tired…and I think I ought to lie down and rest." Her voice remained low, but was still steady. Her eyes were dry, but sunken. She leaned over and kissed the nurse on the cheek.

The nurse got up and walked to the door, which Christine held open for her. "Well, dear, if you ever need to talk to someone…"

"Adieu, Nurse, and do be careful walking home."

The door swung slowly shut. Christine stared at it for a moment, as though she had never realized it performed that particular function. Still moving in a deathlike calm, she turned and walked to the old chair that had been her father's. It smelled of his light cologne and the pastilles he used to quiet his cough. Firelight glinted on the silver pointings of the violin case. She lifted the case and cradled it carefully. She had never learned to play the instrument. It had always been his way of making magic; she did not want to know the magician's secret.

With the violin pressed to her chest, she curled up in his chair and closed her eyes. The world was broken for her, so she shut it out. She felt herself begin to shiver; her teeth clicked together annoyingly, so she bit her lip. When her mother died, she had been able to take comfort in her father's assurance that her mother was in a beautiful musical heaven. She tried to imagine her father playing for her mother, but the image provided no comfort. She needed her father here, now. Heaven could have waited for him. The shuddering gradually gave way to slow, silent tears. She could not find release in weeping; the grief was too heavy on her chest.

In a dark chamber behind the room's massive gilt-edged mirror, Erik stood watching. He felt helpless in the face of Christine's grief. He should have thrown his plan into action. He should have swooped in as her Angel of Music, but he was as paralyzed by her silence as the nurse had been confused by it. He understood. He knew what sort of pain left one shivering and curled in a ball. That Christine should feel such pain was unthinkable. Just as he began to rally his courage to act, there was a hesitant knock at the door.

Christine heard the knock, but didn't move. She was not sure she could move even if she wanted. She could not think of any reason why she should. When the door cracked open and Meg's tentative voice asked, "Christine? Are you still in here?" she still could not move. Meg and her mother came into the parlor and stood by her for a moment. Mme Giry reached down and scooped the little girl into her arms, then carried her out the door.

Erik's breath escaped in a hiss. "Damn!" His chance had just walked out the door. Who knew how long it would be before Christine was alone in the parlor again. He kicked the wall hard enough to hurt his foot. "Damn!" He repeated. Of all the times to have a failure of courage, why had it happened now, when he was actually needed? He had no trouble threatening the powerful managers, he had barely paused before taking a man's life, but in the face of a little girl's silent tears, he was immobilized.

He touched the lever that made the mirror swing inward. He stepped into the empty suite and began to familiarize himself with every nook. His voice would throw best in the parlor, but it might be heard in the hallway. Christine's small bedroom would provide better privacy, but Erik was loath to break his long-standing rule of respecting her privacy in that place. He would simply have to risk the parlor,

"If she ever returns here alone…" he berated himself. On parting, he left a single white rose tied with a black velvet ribbon on her father's chair.

Mme Giry carried Christine to her own apartment and settled her in Meg's bed. "Stay with her, Meg, while I go get a little laudanum to help her sleep."

Meg nodded, smoothing Christine's disheveled hair back from her forehead. Christine still clutched the violin case with both hands. Tears ran from her closed eyes and down her face unnoticed and unwiped. Meg began to blot these with her handkerchief, but realized the effort was futile. Instead, she gently patted her friend's shoulder in silent sympathy.

"Christine, I'm so, so sorry. When Maman and I heard, we came straight away. How dare that awful nurse just tell you like that, without your friends nearby?" Christine showed no sign that she heard, so Meg chattered on, as was her wont, without waiting for a reply. "Well, I think it was just beastly. Your Daddy's funeral will be soon. Everyone will be there. Everyone loved him! Even Carlotta liked him, and she doesn't like _any_one. The entire orchestra will play for him. You ought to sing. Christine, what will you sing? I don't think your father would want you to just lie there crying like that. You have to figure out what you'll sing quickly, so you can practice."

The direction of Meg's chatter finally broke through Christine's frozen thoughts. She opened her streaming eyes and sat up. "Mozart. _Requiem_." she said, and the words seemed to push themselves through river mud. "_Lacrimosa. _I don't…I won't need to practice. I know it in my heart."

A moment passed in silence. Christine traced her finger over the silver ornamentation on the violin case, while Meg continued to sympathetically pat her back, unable to understand why Christine didn't just cry, like any other girl. Soon, Mme Giry returned with a small glass of milk, which she pressed on Christine.

"Drink it, Christine. I know you don't want it, but it will make you sleep."

Christine accepted the glass and forced the cold, oddly bitter liquid down her throat. Mme Giry nodded with satisfaction and took the glass. She eased Christine back in the little bed and pulled the covers tight under the girl's chin. As her mind wandered and her eyes dropped leadenly, Christine's only thought was a wish for her father to play a lullaby for her.

Meg looked up at her mother, her eyes shining with tears. "Why didn't Christine cry, maman? She looks terrible!"

"She'll cry in time, ma cherie. She's going to need a very good friend to be patient with her, no matter her mood, at least for a while. Especially when she is snappish." Mme Giry was familiar with the moods of little girls who lost their parents, and she knew that Christine Daae was likely to be depressed and irritable for many months to come.

Meg nodded thoughtfully. Her mother was, by her estimation, a paragon of wisdom. If her mother said she had to be patient with Christine, then patient she would be. Meg never knew her father; he died at sea when she was only a few months old. She tried to imagine losing her mother, but her mind wouldn't allow it. _Poor Christine_, she thought. Her eyes strayed to the violin. _At least you still have your music._


	22. Angel of Music

Nils Daae's funeral drew so many mourners that the police had to cordon off the graveyard to allow only close friends, Opera staff, the orchestra, and his daughter near the burial site. The music the orchestra made floated through the city, slowing passers by and swelling the crowd. When it came time for Christine to sing, she stood beside the mahogany casket, clasped her hands, and reduced the entire audience to sobs by softly singing a piece of the _Requiem_.

She made it halfway through before she realized that she would not be able to finish. The notes stacked up in her chest, the words plugged her throat, and her voice faded away. Her panicked eyes scanned the crowd, seeing row after row of tearful faces. Without a word, she turned on her heel and ran as fast as she could back to the Opera house to her little room, where she locked the door and threw herself on the bed, moaning low in her throat. Still, tears would not come. After a while, mercifully, sleep did.

When she woke to the sound of Mme Giry calling and knocking at her door, she yelled, "No thank you, Madame! I want to be alone!" and pulled the blankets over her head. Mme Giry stood outside the door for several long moments before deciding that a few hours alone might do the girl good and bustling off to her plethora of tasks.

When the air under the blankets became unbreathable, Christine dragged herself from the bed and realized that the little apartment was chilly. There had not been a fire in the grate since Mme Giry carried her off four days before. Fortunately, there was firewood, kindling, and several long matches set neatly on the hearth. Soon, a little fire began to infuse the area with warmth and life. When the flames were established, Christine turned to climb up into her father's chair, but stopped short at the sight of the rose, now dry and withered.

"The door was locked," she whispered. "The door was locked and Mme Giry has the only other key." She caressed the fragile petals with gentle fingers, and then examined the black velvet ribbon.

On the other side of the parlor mirror, Erik had been patiently waiting. Each morning and evening he came to the little hidden chamber to await Christine's return. The Opera Ghost had nothing but time, and patience. Now, his instrument stood before him, caressing the rose he had left behind. He moved close to the glass and gathered his courage. _I alone know what she needs,_ he thought, and the thought bolstered him. Softly, so that Christine wondered if the voice was real or just en echo in her mind, he spoke her name.

"Christine…" She looked up, her eyes searching the room for the source of the voice. Again, the voice spoke, warm and low. "Christine…listen…" The little girl spun around, wide-eyed, seeing no one. There was a silence in which Christine began to wonder if she hadn't been imagining things, and then the beautiful, low voice began to sing. _Requiem._ The _Lacrimosa_. Christine's breath caught in her throat.

The voice sang a cappella, but it needed no chorus; each note implied harmonies surrounding it. It filled the room; coming from every angle, caressing her like the warmth of the fire. It thawed her frostbitten heart from icy numbness to burning emotion. Each word was sung with deep mournful longing; the music spoke inside her mind. "Weep," it whispered, "Weep for those lost, and those left behind…"

Erik watched with pity and satisfaction as the little face crumpled in on itself and the little chest began to heave with broken sobs. He brought his song to a close, lingering on each note. Christine buried her face in her skirts as her grief raged through her. She cried long and hard, feeling as though there weren't enough tears in the world to drain the hurt of loss. When her sobs tapered off to shuddering sighs and moans, Erik threw his voice to her father's chair.

"Shhh, Christine. You don't need to cry anymore. I'm here now."

She jerked her head up from her skirts and eyed her father's chair with trepidation. "Daddy?" she asked, hopefully.

"No, Christine. I am not your father. I am _he your father promised to you_." The slightest twinge of guilt at the deception disturbed Erik's calm, but he easily dismissed it. This was the best thing for the child, for both of them, really. She would have her Angel, and he would have his instrument.

"You are the…the Angel of Music?" She began dabbing at her eyes, embarrassed to appear before an angel in disarray.

Erik smiled and allowed his voice to reflect his smile. "Yes, Christine. I am the Angel of Music, sent to give your voice wings. Your voice is a beautiful bird in a cage. If you listen well, if you do as I say, we shall let that bird out of its cage and teach it to fly."

Christine rose from the floor and moved to sit on the footstool near the cracked leather chair, just as she had when her father was alive. She believed completely; it showed in her flushed face and in the way she leaned towards the chair to better hear her "visitor". "I would like that very much, M. Angel. Please, did my Daddy ask you personally to come?"

She wants assurance that all is well with her father. thought Erik. Why not?

"You want to know if your father is in heaven?"

She nodded dumbly.

"Of course he is." Erik felt ridiculous, talking about a place he did not believe existed, but she was smiling and he continued. "And the Angels stop their singing to hear him play. But we must talk about you." He made his tone firm, commanding. "There will be rules to abide by. First, you must always do as I say, without question. Second, you must not tell anyone else - save, perhaps, Madame Giry - about me. This must be our secret. Third, music and singing must be first in your thoughts at all times. You will avoid…distractions. Fourth, you must expand your learning beyond what is taught here. I will bring you books to study. Can you do these things, Christine? Or shall I go back whence I came?"

"No!" Christine yelped, jumping to her feet. "Please, stay. I can do those things. I will do anything you ask. I promise."

"That is good, then. You look very tired. Fatigue will weaken your voice; starting tonight, you get nine hours of sleep every night. Go ahead and prepare for bed. Don't worry, your bedroom will always be a private space for you. When you are ready to sleep, call me."

Obediently, Christine went to her bedroom, washed her face and hands, changed into her nightgown, and climbed into bed. At first, she thought she would be too excited to sleep, but when she let her head sink into the down pillow with its crisp linen case, she realized how exhausted she really was. When she had snuggled down amongst the bedclothes, she called timidly, "Angel? Are you there?"

By way of an answer, his voice floated around her in the soft strains of a French lullaby. For the first time in days, Christine felt herself drifting down into sleep without the aid of laudanum, which had given her terrible nightmares. This felt so much gentler! Thoughts of her father, which had only been a grief to her since his death, now flooded her with happiness and warmth. Even in death he had kept his promise to his daughter, sending her the Angel of Music to care for her and teach her. Before the second stanza joined the first, Christine's breathing was deep and steady, her eyes closed, her body limp. Erik could not see her, but when his listening ears could not hear even the slightest motion from the bedroom, he finished the lullaby and made his stealthy way back to his home.


	23. REsurgam

The boat's hull scraped lightly against the makeshift dock he had built from borrowed odds and ends of lumber. He stepped out of the boat and began the nightly task of lamp lighting. Though he had never figured out how to channel the natural gas that lit the rest of the Opera House, he had managed to 'find' numerous oil lamps and a steady supply of lamp oil. These acquisitions allowed Erik to extend his days late into the nights without fussing over sputtering candles which never provided enough light.

The lanterns cast soft light over a fantasy in process. Erik's imagination was naturally rich; years of living in a place devoted to the creation of beautiful dramatic illusions had informed his fancies. The beginnings of twisting passages and looming walls of purloined brick and mortar rose here and there in the cavernous Opera House foundations. On his island stood a little complex of structures. His simple cottage dominated the center of the mound. Over the years he had improved on it whenever possible. Now, it contained most of the comforts of a real home, including a furnished bedroom, washroom, and improvised kitchen. To the left of his home ... Erik shuddered as he allowed his gaze to skip over the newest structure. Its construction had taken weeks and left him exhausted, more from the emotional strain than the physical work. The room was necessary. He'd built it next to his home as an ever-present threat in his mind, to squelch any evil that might be lingering there.

To the right of his cottage, he had begun construction on acoustic walls to surround his organ. The final details of tuning and priming the old pipe organ were done. He had lovingly pieced together and reconditioned the neglected old instrument, allowing days for study and research before adding the next piece. Now he looked over it with affection. The last piece, its tiny steam-engine, was entirely his own creation. There would be no altar-boy to work the bellows for him.

That he had yet to play the thing was not an obstacle in his mind. He had mastered the piano in a short time; he had no doubt the pipe organ would similarly teach him its secrets. Piles of paper, broken pen nibs and emptied inkwells lay scattered about on a large oaken desk next to the organ, a testament to the compositions Erik would play –as soon as the room was finished.

Erik's pride in his home swelled, then diminished. It was beautiful, and would become more beautiful with time and effort, but no one else would ever appreciate his work. He could build Heaven on Earth and it would never be populated by more than one lost soul. At least now, with the Daae child, his music would move beyond the confines of his mind.

His bitter countenance softened in recollection of the ease with which he had assuaged her pain and put her to bed. Her Angel of Music had come to her, restoring her to the world of the living. Erik smiled with the thought that he could bring life and joy as well as fear and death, at least to this one small girl. Before considering sleep, he quickly composed a letter to Mme Giry, explaining his plans for his little ingénue.

_Dear Mme Giry, _

_I think you will find Christine much mended today. She and I "met" last night. She believes I am her Angel of Music, and you will do nothing to disillusion her. I intend to teach her myself; the clumsy instructors employed by our dear M.Poligny and M. Debienne can do nothing but mar the perfection of her voice. You will be responsible for keeping her away from those bumbling fools. She will make this Opera House a legend someday. _

_Regarding my contributions to the well-being of the Opera House, I believe it is time I received some compensation. Tell our good Messieurs that I require one percent of our quarterly profits. They will pay you, and you will leave the money in Box 5. If they object, please do remind them that _they,_ not I, were responsible for hiring the rapist of young girls. _

_Your Obedient Servant, _

_The Opera Ghost_

Mme Giry watched Christine dash across the dance studio floor and embrace Meg. Her hair was clean and neatly arranged, her eyes sparkled. Only the day before, her bedraggled form could barely be pried from bed long enough to attend her father's funeral. Now she was dragging Meg bodily across the room to a more secluded corner. M. le Phantom's letter understated the effects of their meeting. The child was more than improved, she was entirely revived.

Meg smiled at her friend, confused, but happy for the return of Christine's spirit. Christine was apparently bursting with some good news, so Meg waited for the explanation. When Christine was content with their distance from the other girls she leaned close to Meg and whispered, "I have a new voice teacher, but I am not supposed to tell anyone about him, except your mother. But you and your mother are very close, so I think I can tell you – if you promise to tell NO ONE else. Do you promise?"

Meg nodded, but that did not satisfy her excited friend.

"You have to swear to me."

"All right, all right. I swear it on my right foot. Will you tell me?" Meg was laughing, but also beguiled by this momentous secret.

"I have talked with the Angel of Music. He visited me in my parlor last night, like a proper gentleman caller."

"A man visited you!" Meg nearly squealed with horror, but remembered that this was a secret.

"No…he wasn't a man. He was just a voice. Nothing but a voice."

"How do you know it wasn't just someone playing tricks on you?" Meg hated to dampen Christine's spirits, but the possibility had to be addressed.

"Oh no Meg, you never _heard_ such a voice in all your life. No one here has a voice anything like that. If we did, we would sell out every night. He sang to me so beautifully. He sang the Requiem, and I cried so hard I thought I'd die. Then he told me that he would teach me to sing…"

"Maybe it was a dream, Christine. You have such a vivid imagination…"

"It wasn't, Meg. I know it wasn't, because in a dream there wouldn't be so many rules to follow! We haven't had our first lesson yet, and he already says I must do this and I mustn't do that…I think he will be a very strict teacher, even more than Mme Joullard. After he told me he would teach me, he made me go to bed and sleep. No dream would put you to sleep in your own bed." Christine's assurances were beginning to convince Meg that an Angel really had visited her. After all, her father had just been buried, and he had talked about the Angel of Music when he was alive. Besides, if there was an Opera Ghost, why couldn't there be an Angel of Music?

"Well, mon amie, if there is an Angel of Music, I am not surprised he chose you. Do you think we should tell Maman?

"Yes. He told me I could tell Mme Giry," a worried look creased her brow. "I hope he won't be cross that I told you, too."

"I wouldn't worry about it. Come, let's tell Maman before practice begins. I hope your _pas de chat _has improved, or that you at least don't trip over your left foot this time."


	24. A Note

The two girls ran off to tell the improbable story to Mme Giry, who did her best to look surprised and intrigued. In truth, she was uneasy about M. le Phantom's interest in the little Daae girl. The child's voice was divine, true, but how wholesome could it be for a child to have a Ghost as a teacher? Would he be as demanding of the child as he was of his harried Housekeeper? On the other hand, if she could intercede on Christine's behalf and keep the Ghost's demands reasonable, it was likely that Christine would become the greatest coloratura soprano ever to grace any stage.

The dance instructor called the class to order and the girls ran to their places. Poor Christine was tucked behind two tall girls where her faux-pas would not be so easily seen. Mme Giry covered her smile with a hand. Christine would never be a dancer, for certain. She left the room, determined to have firm words with the Phantom. Music might be his province, but little girls were hers. He would be angry with her; he might even punish her for questioning him, but it was her duty to protect the children of the Opera, and she was unfailing in that duty. In her private chambers she began to pen her own letter to the Phantom.

_Dear M. le Phantom, _

_I make bold to write to you on account of Nils Daae's daughter. Christine told me that you'd be teaching her this morning. She was so happy that I thought it prudent to write to you concerning children in general and little girls in particular. Monsieur, with all due respect, you must be careful of demanding too much from the child. Children need to be children or they fade like cut flowers. You know music, but I know children. I would respectfully request that you allow me to help you in rearing her, or you may mar her soul as badly as you think the instructors would mar her voice._

_The managers are furious, Monsieur, and say they will not pay you to haunt their place of business. The matter is quite beyond me. _

_Respectfully, _

_Mme A. Giry. _

After carefully sealing it in a small envelope addressed to M. le Phantom. She carried it to box 5 and left it on the velvet upholstered seat. He would find and read it in his own time. She could only hope he would not be as angry as the managers were when she relayed his demand for salary to them. She worried for M. Debienne, whose face turned white, then proceeded to darken from pink to red to scarlet and finally to an alarming shade of purple.

M. Poligny (as was his wont) had exploded, "What the devil does a ghost need money for, hmm? Answer me that, Madame, and he can have his damned money!"

Retaining her dignity, Mme Giry had calmly replied, "I do not presume to question M. Opera Ghost. Perhaps you should read the last line of the letter again, Messieurs, as I believe it makes an important point that you may wish to consider. Thomas is not in the best of health right now. I intend to keep my neck unblemished. Au revoir, and God keep you."

She curtsied curtly to them and departed. Now, as she returned to her apartment, she guiltily hoped that M. le Fantome would direct his ire at the stubborn managers and not at her. As far as she was concerned, he did serve the Opera House well, and did deserve some compensation for his efforts. Of course, the managers only saw their profits shrinking.

Erik found the letter shortly after the performance of _Aida_ began. Overjoyed to see _his box_ empty, he slipped in after the curtains rose and the symphony swelled. Usually, Mme Giry communicated in notes. The envelope was most unusual. Erik opened it and read silently. At first he sneered at the idea that he would need the Housekeeper's assistance in dealing with Christine. But the sneer slipped into solemn thought. He hadn't been allowed his childhood, and look where he was now - a murderer hiding in a basement, a demon pretending to be an Angel. Perhaps he would allow the good lady to give him advice, if advice were needed.

Then his eyes scanned the last bit of information, and narrowed dangerously. It was out of her hands indeed. He sighed as he left in the midst of his favorite aria, sloppily rendered by the Carlotta. Once, she had been great. Her vibrato had always been a bit excessive, but now her voice was becoming breathy, raspy, even tinny at times. She had developed many bad habits which depleted her voice's natural beauty. Yes, she would have to be replaced as soon as a suitable soprano could be found. Right now, though, he had some stubborn managers to deal with.

M. Debienne always watched the performances from box 1, mistakenly believing that since it was the closest box it afforded the best experience of the performance. Tonight, he was alone in the plush seat, with his heavy shoes scuffing the polished balcony. Erik ran the velvet curtain tie between his fingers and calmed his wildly beating heart. He would have to be very careful not to actually hurt the man, or let him cry out above the music. A deep breath later, the velvet looped over Debienne's head and under his pudgy neck.

His beady eyes bulged as a voice whispered in his ear, "Monsieur, dear Monsieur, I ask for so very _little_. I only request a portion of the money _I_ bring in for you by culling the mediocre talent. Shall I let you breathe? Or will you continue to deny my modest request?"

Debienne nodded frantically, tearing at the strangling rope with both hands. Erik simultaneously released pressure on the rope and clapped a leather-gloved hand over Debienne's mouth.

"Good choice, Monsieur. I shall expect my first payment on the fifteenth of next month. Please do not disappoint me. I do not enjoy your company, and I know you do not prefer mine. But I will return if need be."

The hand lifted and Debienne spun around to face his attacker. No one was there, but a length of red velvet attested to the reality of the encounter, as did Debienne's aching throat. The Phantom had let him live. How kind.

"And really," muttered the demoralized man to himself, "He doesn't ask so very much."


	25. Finally Fifteen

Christine's first lesson, like all her lessons, began with the mesmerizing voice of her instructor.

"Good afternoon, Christine. Are you ready to begin?"

"Yes, M. Angel." she was a very sensitive child. The grave politeness in her Angel's voice did much to put her at her ease.

"Let me hear your major scales, but not on an "ah". Sing them on "zee." Start on middle C." He watched her through the mirror, scrutinizing her posture, her breathing, the relaxation in her face and throat. She began singing. _Perfect pitch, perfect posture, _Erik thought giddily. _She's a prodigy._

None of his pleasure came through in his stern voice. It was far too soon for compliments.

"Stop. Start again. This time, I expect that you will _actually sing. _This means that you will open your throat, raise your soft palette and support your breath from the muscles in your stomach."

Christine looked down in shame. No one had ever criticized her voice before.

"Again, from middle C. This time on "noh", and I want the vowel pure." He watched her for any sign of recalcitrance. There was none. He was the Angel of Music, and his word was law. She raised her head and began again. It was clear after a few notes that she could hear the difference in her sound the moment she followed his directions. Her eyes widened with surprise and her smile became real – which again brightened her tone. Erik decided he could allow her a little praise.

"That was an improvement. I see you noticed as well. Perhaps in a few weeks, I will permit you to begin a song. For now, I want to hear your minor scales. Same vowel."

And so went each lesson. Christine's extraordinary voice flowered under Erik's expert tutelage. Erik knew that she received plenty of praise from others. He withheld his own praise for moments of true perfection – he would not produce another Carlotta. As a result, Christine learned humility and discipline. The praise of others meant little to her; those rare times when her Angel complimented her were her meat and drink. She devoted herself to her music and her Muse, never daring to question or disobey his direction.

Had Mme Giry not spoken up for the importance of play and friendships, the poor girl would have spent all her time studying, singing, and sleeping. As it was, Erik allowed two hours a day for recreational time, and did his best to refrain from following her to make sure she did not scream or giggle as the other girls did. Mme Giry encouraged Erik to trust her, and her unusual maturity supported that trust. Still, he ended each of her voice lessons with reminders that she was not to allow herself "social entanglements" or other "risky behaviors" that might distract her from her studies.

If Erik consciously worked to control Christine's behavior, she exerted an equally strong unconscious influence over him. In her third summer of tutelage under her Angel, she sighed after successfully running a series of intricate scales. "May I rest, Angel? I am a little tired today."

"Certainly Christine. Did you not sleep well last night? Sleep is…"

"Essential to the quality of tone. I know. But I heard something in the walls, and I was afraid." Christine was curled up on the warm hearth, playing with the fire-poker as she spoke.

"Afraid of the dark? That's unlike you."

"No. Afraid of the Phantom! The girls in the ballet say that he always haunts the hallways, and Carlotta said that he's done murder, and even tried to kill M. Debienne once! I don't know why, but my imagination got away from me last night, and I fancied he was right there, haunting my rooms."

Erik had, in fact, been in her rooms the night before, testing the acoustics. He winced to think that the reputation of his alter ego was frightening enough to keep Christine awake nights. But he was sure he had been perfectly silent – had she _sensed_ his presence?

"Do you really believe this Phantom exists? If all the ghost stories in Paris were true, there wouldn't be any room for the people."

"Well, Angel, I thought that since _you _exist, _he _might exist as well. But I always feel safe when I know you are near. I suppose it was silly of me to be so frightened last night. I promise I will go to bed early tonight, to make up for it."

"All right, little one. See that you do. I will expect your full energy tomorrow."

That conversation rung in Erik's memory. No matter how the managers goaded him, or how poorly the performers played their parts (and Carlotta's voice withered more with each passing year) he restrained himself as much as possible regarding his culling tactics. Christine's health was far more important to him at this moment than small issues in the Opera Populaire.

Her fifteenth birthday approached; Erik wanted her to be at her best when they finally decided she was ready to audition. She had reached a plateau in performance that baffled him. It was not a matter of technique, or tone, or clarity. Those were as perfect as could be. Something essential was missing, though. If he could only identify and correct that one little thing, her voice would pass through extraordinariness into sublimity, but he could not put his finger on it.

Theatre rules forbade anyone under the age of fifteen from singing onstage. The reasoning was that before the age of fifteen the voice was fragile and should not be strained by performance. Once a singer reached her fifteenth birthday, however, she was free to audition for a part in the chorus.

When Christine opened her eyes before dawn on her fifteenth birthday her first thought was that the sign-up sheet for choral auditions was hanging outside the managers' office, and that her name could be placed on it this very day. The third time she misbuttoned her shoes, she started deep breathing techniques to calm herself. _Nothing more momentous happens today than writing your name on a piece of paper_, she reminded herself, _so take a deep breath and calm down._

She and her Angel of Music had not discussed whether she would audition this year. Christine knew she was most likely risking his ire by acting without his direction, but the allure of that call sheet was simply too great. Here was a chance to display the fruits of her long labor and the strict self discipline that had kept her quiet while other girls shrieked and home when other girls began going out on the town with their friends.

Finally properly dressed, Christine ran down the halls and up the enormous curving staircase. The list hung, as always, on a piece of corkboard by the door. There were several names on it already; she perused these with great interest. A couple of them she recognized from the ballet corps, others were strangers. She wondered how she would compare. The call sheet proclaimed that there were numerous bass, tenor, and alto vacancies but only a single opening for soprano voice.

The hour was early enough that the halls were lit only by rushlight. Dawn had just begun to gleam pinkly on the horizon. Christine glanced around, reassuring herself that the halls were empty, then lifted her pen to the paper. As she scratched her name on the sheet, she heard the faintest sound of a piano. Who would be up at this hour playing piano? Servants might be awake at this hour, but they would be making breakfast, not music. Most of the performers and musicians kept late hours in the mornings because performances went on late into the night. Christine tried to make out the tune, while staring at her name in ink of the call sheet. After a moment, she decided to see who the early morning musician was.


	26. Angels and Phantoms

Christine followed the faint sound to the practice halls. Finally, she could identify Liszt's Liebestraum played wistfully and infused with a heart-wrenching longing. She knew every musician in the Opera Populaire by his sound, but didn't recognize this playing style. It resonated within her, entranced her. She imagined this mystery person playing accompaniment while she sang. As rude as she knew it was, she decided to open the practice room door and peek in. Perhaps, if she was very careful, she could crack the door without disturbing the pianist.

The door was well oiled; she was able to turn the handle and swing it open a few inches without a sound. Holding her breath, she leaned towards the opening. An unmistakably male form hunched over the spinet, swaying gently with the movement of his hands on the keyboard. Strangely, he wore a fine derby hat and a voluminous opera cape despite the warmth of the little room. Seeing that she had successfully avoided disturbing him, she dared to inch into the room.

A glimpse of white halted her progress. A white mask…cloak...hat; she was alone in this room with the Opera Ghost! Panic tried to force a shriek from her throat, but she swallowed the sound and backed out the door, painstakingly closing it as she left. The moment the door latched, she ran down the hall, not caring about the loud clattering echoes of her shoes on the parquet floors. Once back to the safety of her room, she locked the door and fell into her chair, gasping for breath.

When he heard the practice room door shut, Eric leapt from his seat, fully intending to deal harshly with the intruder. How dare someone intrude on his music! When he saw Christine's fleeing form disappearing down the hallway, his righteous anger met his rising fear both for her safety and his continued anonymity. It was obvious why the foolish child was wandering the corridors at that ungodly hour – it was her fifteenth birthday, after all. A quick glance at the call sheet confirmed his suspicions. He spun on his heel and stormed towards her apartments. Halfway there, he heard her thin and quivering voice calling for her Angel – right after she had run from him. A bitter taste flooded his mouth.

Christine stood in her parlor and began to call out to her Angel; his presence was so comforting. But then she remembered her own early morning transgression. Would he be too angry with her to come? Let him be angry with her, she decided. His presence would calm her, even if he was angry.

"Angel? Please come to me, Angel of Music!" she called, ashamed at her shaking voice.

She stood in the center of the room, arms wrapped around herself, waiting. Not five minutes passed before her Angel's voice rung out in the room.

"Your name is on the audition list." An almost threatening tenseness sounded a discord in the angelic voice.

Christine's already racing heart leapt into her throat. He knew, and he was angry with her. Maybe even furious, considering his tone. She lifted her hands in a supplicating gesture, but the voice went on. "You made that choice without consulting me. Perhaps you feel you no longer require tutelage." Cold fury was evident in every inflection.

"No! Angel, no… I need you… It's my fifteenth birthday, and I only thought…"

"You thought? You _didn't_ think! Only fifteen years old, but woman enough to wander the corridors of the Opera in the dark of night! There are dangers here you know nothing about. When I think what might have happened to you…" The voice thundered through the room, loud enough that Christine wanted to plug her ears with her fingers. She had to explain herself, and quickly, or he would leave her.

"That is why I called to you. I saw him…I saw the Opera Ghost. I'm sorry I signed up without your permission, and I'm sorry to have angered you. Please, don't leave me." Christine made her mouth stop babbling. She whispered, "I only thought you'd be proud to have me in the chorus." Gaining strength, she continued, "And then I heard the piano, so I went to see. I thought Luciana might be suffering from insomnia. I thought she might accompany me. But I could tell from the sound that it was _not_ Luciana. It was the Ghost! It scared me so badly to see him; I ran all the way here. Please don't be angry with me. I did not mean to behave recklessly."

Her pleading tone broke through the fire and ice that was Erik's mind. She wanted him to be proud of her. Through the mirror he examined her. Her hands were clasped together, her face white, and her eyes wide and glassy. It isn't her fault that her Angel is also a monster, he thought somberly.

The long silence unnerved Christine. "Angel? Are you there?"

"Are you sure you saw the Phantom? Was he dripping with the blood of innocents? Were his fangs bared? Was the room cold with the chill of death and evil?" Erik could not keep the sarcasm from his voice as he recounted some of the fanciful rumors favored by the service staff.

"No, he wasn't anything like that." she thought back to the music that drew her into the small room, "But I know it was him, because of the mask. The white mask everyone says he wears. But Angel, this may seem ridiculous…and I hope you will forgive me if I am being fanciful…but I think the Opera Ghost may not be so evil as everyone says he is. The way he played the piano; there wasn't evil in his music. Until I saw who it was, I wasn't at all frightened, I thought he was just very…sad...and terribly alone. He was playing the Liebestraum so beautifully." She tapered off and immersed herself in thought.

Again, silence filled the room. Erik was frantically trying to suppress an irrational wave of joy. Christine had run away, true. But she remembered more than just the terror of the Phantom of the Opera. She had heard his music, truly listened, and she was moved by it. He looked at her again, standing there alone in the middle of the parlor, staring thoughtfully at her father's violin case.

He couldn't justly classify her as a child any longer. Her poise and maturity belied her years, and her eyes shone with keen intelligence. When the Opera teachers declared they had nothing left to teach her and graduated her with honors three years ahead of her class, he had swelled with pride, forgetting that the credit was due as much to her intellect and dedication as to his guidance. He had never really seen her before, except as an instrument he wished to play.

Her physicality matched her unblemished spirit. She had not braided her hair yet; long, glossy, curls of that golden hue peculiar to the Nordic people fell halfway down her back. Her face was sweet with its Cupid's bow lips and large deep blue eyes. She was not tall, but she unconsciously carried herself with a powerful presence. Now he saw her, beautiful, strong, intelligent…musical. And she had seen him, even if she did not know it. He would have to begin watching out for beaus – she was a pretty girl and her innocence would need to be protected. There were more pressing issues, though, than his sudden lyricism over his student's beauty. In two weeks the girl had to audition.

Nonchalantly, Erik jumped to that subject. "Now that you have committed yourself to the auditions, we must choose a piece and prepare you. We have a bare two weeks. What piece would you choose?"

Christine was surprised by the question. Her Angel so rarely left such decisions up to her judgment. She thought for awhile. "I would enjoy singing Bellini," she ventured. "I think it would allow me to demonstrate my range without giving me too much room to fail."

"Not a bad choice," Erik conceded. He thought immediately of seven other pieces that would compliment her voice equally well. "How well do you know it?"

Another surprising appeal to her judgment left Christine at a loss for words. "I…I…know it by heart. You aren't going to leave me, are you?" It was the only reason she could think of that he would suddenly allow her so much choice.

"You are fifteen, now; almost a woman. You must begin to guide your own study a bit." As Erik said the words, he knew them to be true. And then he spoke another truth that shook him profoundly. "But know that I will never leave you."


	27. Audition

The day of the auditions, Christine's Angel of Music bade her rest until it was time to warm her voice. The piece she picked was a lovely, gentle piece that showcased Christine's incredible range and crystaline voice quality. She knew every nuance of the piece by heart; more than once she woke in the night with the refrain on her lips. As she sat in the middle of her bed, sipping chamomile tea without sugar, she found herself pondering a puzzle that occasionally plagued her. It was the same puzzle that Erik had realized months before.

As she moved through her warm-up routine, scales, and pitch placement exercises, she tried to understand why she was not content with her singing. Her voice was pretty enough, and her tone was pure. Perfect pitch, excellent projection, and a broad range: all these things told her that she had an exceptional voice.

Then why this feeling of dissatisfaction? When she sang, something beyond the notes fell flat. Though she easily exceeded the talents of any other performer at the Opera Populaire, that indefinable missing piece nagged constantly at the edge of her conscious. She had never asked her Angel what the problem was, assuming that he would tell her if she needed to know.

"Angel, I am going to the audition now. Please be with me." She waited until a gentle voice answered, "I will be."

The audition hall was full of choral hopefuls. Checking the list, Christine saw that she would audition after more than half the people present. This was good, in that she would have a chance to hear her competition. Unfortunately, it also meant that by the time she mounted the stage, the judge would be bored and restless. There was nothing to do but wait and listen, so she settled into a seat.

Many of the auditioners were flatly untalented. The choral director rarely allowed these more than a few bars of song before curtly dismissing them with a, "Thank you, that will be all." A few voices were talented, but untaught. These were asked to leave an address where they could be reached. The rest were pleasant to listen to; for amusement, Christine made a list of the ones she thought would make good chorus members.

Her focus sharpened each time a soprano hopeful took the stage, but soon she grew as bored and restless as the judges. This one became shrill in head register, that one had a rasping tone, another could not switch over her passagio without hitting a sour note. Finally, Christine's name was called and she slowly walked up to the mark.

The choral director, M. Besson, had heard rumors of the young girl's unearthly talent, but never was able to corner her and make her sing. Christine looked at his bored, expectant face and said, "I will sing Bellini." It was a simple piece, and there were some giggles at her choice.

After the first two notes other performers stopped their warm-ups. Several women who were there to try for the soprano seat simply got up and left. Ennui melted away from M. Besson's face as he stared up at the stage in blank wonderment. The rumors did the girl no justice. There was no question whether she would be chosen for the vacancy, but he allowed her to finish her audition piece, simply for the pleasure of listening. When she was done, applause erupted throughout the room.

"Well, my dear," began M. Besson, "I believe I can safely welcome you to the Chorus of the Opera Populaire. Please report to rehearsal Wednesday at three o'clock." He stood and bowed to her. "It will be an honor to place you in my chorus, but I do not believe you will last long there…"

Christine lowered her head, feeling her cheeks flame.

"As soon as your voice is a bit more mature, you will be obliged to audition for greater roles in the Operas, and I will lose you to M. Reyeurre. I will try to keep you for three years, but I doubt you'll stay a day longer."

He smiled at her and bowed again. She realized she was dismissed and calmly left the stage. She measured each step as she walked up the aisle of the theatre, nodding and smiling at people who congratulated her. She maintained this tranquil pace until she reached her own hallway. Then she broke into a flat run, burst through the door of her apartment and sang a snippet of "Ode to Joy" fervently.

"Congratulations." Her Angel was there. "I don't know why you are here. Go celebrate your victory with your friends, only be sure to return in time for your lesson."

Erik watched her smile her thanks and skip out the door. He turned and left her apartments, headed to his home. He had fallen behind in his work there since his tutelage of Christine began five years before. His own music had suffered; in that time he had barely composed three pieces and was not pleased with the quality of the work he produced. Now, however, he heard the strains of a new work lilting in his mind and this piece had the feel of a masterpiece. When it was finished, his pipe organ would have a piece worthy of its construction.


	28. Enter deChagny

Christine was the youngest member of the chorus by a decade. She knew every singer, and they welcomed her as family immediately. She enjoyed the thrill of performance within the safety of numbers. She loved the way her voice sounded as it blended with bass, baritone, tenor, and alto. The only dark spot in her choral career was the Angel of Music's baffling refusal to work on any choral pieces with her. He was intent on developing her solo voice to its fullest before moving on to anything else.

Two years passed in quick succession. As with her father's virtuosity before her, Christine's genius increased the Opera Populaire's respectability and ticket sales. Her voice was blended in with dozens of others, which prevented patrons from identifying the source of the sudden improvement, but her fellow chorus members knew, and most of them blessed her for it.

In the midst of her second year in the chorus, the Opera house was purchased by the powerful and discerning deChagny family. Many performers feared sudden changes in management, composers favored, and all the little things that new owners often decided to tailor to their own preferences. No changes occurred, and after a few months the reason came to light. The elder deChagny, Phillippe, cared nothing for the opera or for any music. He had purchased the place solely to please his younger brother, Raoul, of whom he was fond. Raoul attended performances faithfully, once per week. Box seven was reserved for him every night, whether or not he attended.

Christine often joined the other girls in peeking at him whenever possible. None of them could be blamed. The young man was impossibly handsome, with chiseled features and a strong, tall stature. His teeth were the same glistening white as his immaculate pocket handkerchief. He never failed to kiss a lady's hand. His hair was perfectly slicked under his jauntily set black top hat, which he never failed to remove in the presence of females, whether they were withered matrons or girls in pinafores. Language that was less than reverent never left his lips. He bowed and smiled kindly, when giving his coat to the coat check girl, who giggled and blushed nearly to apoplexy every time he visited her window. The other girls envied and pitied her. Certainly she had the pleasure of brushing his hand as she took his coat, but she made a complete ninny of herself every time he came near.

Erik was not so impressed by the boy who appeared to be only a year or two his junior. He regularly attended the Opera, but his bemused or even bored expression during essential movements revealed his ignorance of the art form. Over the years, Erik had observed the elite class from the shadows at balls and galas. He learned their manners, their way of speaking, and their secrets. He knew that to be considered sophisticated and well-educated, a gentleman was required to have a knowledge of and at least a passing interest in the arts.

This boy struck him as the type who mimicked the habits of his betters without understanding why those habits marked them as his betters. When the girls of the opera giggled and blushed over Raoul's handsome face and pretty manners, Erik snorted contemptuously. When Christine joined them, he averted his gaze to avoid the angry nausea that boiled up from his clenched stomach. He said nothing to her of it, assuming that this was one of those times Mme Giry would advise him to remember that "girls must be girlish."

Worse, the deChagnys now held enough of an interest in the Opera Populaire that their whims influenced the manager's decisions. Eric was hard put to it to make sure his "contributions" to the Opera were recognized and valued. He dare not molest the powerful family directly – he had to work through rumors among the staff.

To his relief, the wealthy men were not worried about the "Opera Ghost". As far as they were concerned, the fact that the place had only become more profitable since the reputed 'haunting' began indicated that nothing truly needed to be changed.


	29. The Sin of Omission

As her voice matured, pressure to leave the relative anonymity of the chorus and enter the limelight increased. Everyone from Meg Giry to both managers begged her to audition for at least a minor role in some small operetta. The Angel of Music, though, made no such suggestions. Christine knew why he remained silent. In everyone else's ears, she was more than good enough for a lead role in any production. In her own ears, and in the ears of her Angel, she was not ready. There was some barrier she had yet to overcome.

They continued to struggle with this missing element. Each assumed the other was unaware of the problem. It was Christine who finally broke down in frustration during her lesson on her seventeenth birthday. In an uncharacteristic fit of temper, she stomped her foot and emitted a very unbeautiful grunt.

"It's not right. Do you hear it? There's something wrong. There has been something wrong for years," her voice rose in volume, "and I simply don't. know. _what_!" She threw herself in an ungainly heap on the ground and rhythmically pounded her small fist into the thickly carpeted floor. Her ire grew in the silence. With no one else to blame for her difficulties, she turned on her Angel, not caring about the consequences. "And you! I don't know you either. You're nothing but a voice in my head." She became shrill. "For all I know, I've gone completely mad and I'm taking voice lessons from some…from a…from an hysterical hallucination!"

For his part, Erik stood transfixed in the stifling mirror chamber. At first, he was annoyed and then angered by her unseemly display. It was so unlike her. Then he realized, it was _entirely_ unlike her. She existed in an emotionally sterile bubble; a bubble he had helped to create. Other girls were dating, falling in love, breaking hearts and having their hearts broken. They made best friends with one another, and then ceased speaking to one another for weeks, only to tearfully make up over tea. They were unabashedly passionate.

That was the key to the problem. Christine lacked passion. Since her father died, he had rarely seen her smile. He was almost certain she never laughed. When she did begin to feel any emotion, she quickly mastered and bottled it. He felt the fool for not having seen this sooner. He had developed her mind with philosophy, great literature, and science. He had coached her voice through the magic of technique, even developed some entirely new techniques exclusively for her. He had protected her health by restricting her activities. He had not, however, done anything to allow her spirit to grow. What could even begin to remedy this colossal damage?

"Christine, get up and go to the mirror." His voice was stern and even, not betraying his excitement - and his blossoming fear.

For a tense moment, she didn't move from the floor. Habitual obedience won out over exhausted frustration and she reluctantly stood, straightened her rumpled skirts and plodded to the mirror. She stared at her reflection, at the sullen expression that darkened her features. Erik waited for the predictable change. Sure enough, once she saw her dark mood in her reflection, she smoothed the wrinkles of anger from her brow, dropped her hunched shoulders, and forced a look of studious interest.

"I know what is robbing your voice of perfection. In watching your little temper tantrum, I realized that I have committed a sin of omission while teaching you. Whether my mistake will be corrected has yet to be seen."

She was standing at the mirror, still flushed with anger and veiled defiance. Her hair had fallen loose from her customary tight braid. Her clothes were still in disarray, despite her perfunctory efforts at smoothing them. Her eyes flashed dangerously when he implicated himself. She was easily the prettiest girl he had seen in all his life.

When he found spit enough to speak he went on, trying to maintain his smooth and self-assured tone. "You have not gone mad. Abandon the idea. I am as real as you are. And I think…if you will promise to trust me…I know how to remedy the problem."

Christine had no response. She was already feeling ashamed of her outburst. That her Angel remained so calm in the face of her childish fury only served to abash her further. She took a deep breath to steady her voice and said, "I apologize for my temper. I trust you. I promise." All trace of frustration was gone; her voice was as smooth and seamless as satin.

"Are you sure? A moment ago, I was 'an hysterical hallucination.' There is something I wish to show you, but if you do not trust me completely, I cannot."

The faintest line of annoyance wrinkled her forehead, and was gone. Erik was looking for it, and did not miss it. _Excellent_, he thought.

"I trust you. I promise."

He poured all the power and majesty he possessed into his next question until it echoed in the small room and seemed to hang palpably in the air.

"Would you like to meet your Angel of Music?"

"I don't understand. You are here with me now, are you not?" Christine asked, confused and startled.

"I am, and I'm not," Erik hated speaking so cryptically, but he could not think how to prepare her to discover that her Angel of Music was also the horrific Phantom of the Opera. "Come to the stage at four in the morning this Saturday. There, we will begin work on your…problem. If, that is, you remain long enough. Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Daae."

She called to him, but the Voice was gone. Dinner would be served soon and she could not possible go to the table in her current state. She fussily rebraided her hair, tucked in her blouse, and smoothed her skirts. A cool wet cloth erased the hot flush left of her anger. The mirror confirmed that she was restored to proper order and could go to dinner. As she left her apartment, he heard that low, entrancing voice echoing in her memory: _Would you like to meet your Angel? If… you remain long enough. _


	30. A Little Excitement

Meg met her in the refectory doorway, giddy with some news about a date with one of the chorus tenors. As the girls ate, Meg excitedly recounted her story. Christine nodded and smiled frequently, occasionally saying, "Really?" or "How interesting…" but her mind registered not a word of it.

"…down the streets in just my petticoats!" Meg finished.

"Huh?" Christine's eyes snapped wide and she stared at Meg, who was smiling at her knowingly. "Meg!"

"I didn't think you were listening. Christine Daae, what has gotten into you this evening? You're barely touching your food, but I know the bouillabaisse is your favorite. I just told you a _very_ juicy story about a certain tenor and me, but you didn't hear a word of it. I had to mention," here Meg's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "_underwear_ to get your attention. So, out with it. What has so completely captured the brilliant Christine Daae's mind?"

Christine looked down at her fingers which fiddled nervously with her spoon. Her bouillabaisse was thickening and she'd only had one bite. Meg's astute observation brought Christine back to the present moment. "I'm sorry Meg. My teacher gave me some very difficult criticism this morning, and I guess I'm just wrapped up in that." Normally, Meg was her confidant and faithful listening ear when the Angel became demanding or unreasonable. Christine looked at Meg's annoyed expression and decided that this was one secret that would have to remain between them.

Meg ruffled in her friend's defense. "I don't see what any voice coach could teach you, anyway. Your voice is perfect! Carlotta has begun to take notice of you, and she is not pleased with what she sees. If I were her, I'd worry too. Her voice isn't what it was when we were children, and _your_ voice is already what hers never has been."

"Meg, I want you to imagine something. Imagine you are dancing in the practice room. You know every step. Your plie, your pirouette, your glisse, everything is technically perfect. But when the music starts and you begin to dance, the dance just _looks_ wrong to you. Everyone else thinks you are wonderful, graceful. But _you_ know that it is not your best. You practice for years, until your legs are tired and your toes bleed through your shoes, but that feeling that the perfection of your dance is still unrealized stays with you. It's like the mirror is laughing at you. That's me. And only my teacher and I seem to notice." Though her tone was as subdued as always, there was a well-banked fire behind her words.

Meg could not respond. She did understand now. Dancing was her passion. She was the ballet corps' lead dancer; reviewers had spoken of her reverently, calling every step she made "a prayer." Those reviews would mean nothing to her, though, if the mirror told her a different story. She patted Christine's hand sympathetically.

"Maybe you need a break from rehearsal. A little excitement? I have it on the most reliable authority that today is the day Mssrs. deChagny are supposed to tour the Opera house for their annual inspection. And by that same authority, guess who has the onerous duty of guiding them?"

"Meg, how are you ever going to do it? Claire can barely contain herself when she hands him his coat check ticket, and I think you are more smitten than she! You'll giggle yourself sick! They'll have to carry you away." By now both young women were giggling at the prospect of Meg giggling herself into a fainting fit.

"Well, mon amie, I was hoping that you would join me, with your studiousness and self-possession. It's all mother can talk about," shrilly, Meg imitated her mother, "'Why can't you be more like Christine? Christine would have finished her homework _before _going to town.' I reminded her that you no longer have homework. She sniffed at me as though her point were made. But I'm very serious, Christine. I won't be able to do this without you! I really will have a fainting fit, if you won't come with me."

"Do I have to say anything?" Though she had no problem performing in front of hundreds of people on stage, Christine was plagued with shyness where young, handsome, wealthy, dashing men were concerned.

"Be polite, at least!" This time, Meg's mimicked Christine's delicate, airy tones, " 'Good evening, Messieurs. This is the privy, Messieurs. Do enjoy the performance, messieurs."

Passers by gave them bemused looks as they giggled helplessly at one another.

"I'll come, but only if you arabesque at each stop."

"Agreed. Meet us in the lobby at eight. And Christine?"

"Yes?"

"Wear something pretty. This _is_ the owner of the Opera Populaire, and one of the wealthiest men in Paris."

Christine nodded and headed towards her room. Meg's voice floated after her, high and conspicuous over the low murmur of the dinner crowd.

"And his very eligible younger brother!"

Back in her room, Christine looked over her scant collection of dresses. Since her father's death, Mme Giry had scrupulously doled out the money he left behind, knowing that it would be years before the girl could earn her keep. The chorus position did pay a bit, but not enough to keep a young girl dressed in the height of fashion. Most of her clothes were sober and modest, which matched Christine's quiet, modest lifestyle. After debating for many minutes, she decided on a white silk Gibson Girl blouse with some puff to the sleeves and her dove grey full skirt. She silently thanked her Angel of Music for flatly refusing to allow her more than minimal corsetry. Her waist would never achieve the "wasp" shape many other girls were proud of, but she could breathe and sing without pain.

A brooch, necklace and small watch rounded out her look. She was very pleased until she passed the parlor mirror and saw her hair in its tight braid. After thirty minutes spent wrangling her obstinate curly hair into a low coiffure, she smiled at her image in the mirror, preened a bit and skipped from the room to join her friend in the lobby.

Meg raised her eyebrows as Christine approached. "My goodness, Christine! You should go change back to your schoolgirl clothes and pin your hair down again. If you wander around like that, you'll have to fight men off to walk down the hallways."

Christine blushed and smoothed her skirt. "Is it too much? I could go change…"

"Don't be ridiculous. You look very nice. Oh, here they come. If I get silly, kick me."

The approaching deChagnys stopped in the center of the lobby and looked around, clearly expecting someone.

"They must be looking for Mother," whispered Meg. "It looks as if we'll have to go to them. Thank goodness you're here. I never could, on my own."

Meg and Christine approached the gentlemen, who removed their high beaver hats and bowed. The ladies dropped low curtsies, and after a moment of blushing, Meg found her voice. "Welcome Messieurs. I am Mlle. Giry and this is Mlle. Daae. We have been asked to guide you through our Opera house. Where would you like to begin?"

"And an honor it is to make your acquaintance," began the elder deChagny. "We rather expected Mme Giry herself, but I am sure a tour conducted by two such charming ladies will be…a pleasant way…to pass the afternoon." He turned to his brother. "Raoul, you know this place. Where would you have us begin?"

"I would have our guides decide. I am sure I will not see a thing on this tour more interesting than the beginning." His debonair smile infused the girls' cheeks with warm hues of rose.

They began in the attics and steadily made their way through living quarters, practice rooms, servants' quarters, administration offices, and ballrooms to the stage. Fortunately, neither of the gentlemen was interested in seeing the basements this time. They decided they would come back at a later date to view the storage areas and get some idea of the inventory. This pleased both guides; Meg had a horror of basements, and Christine saw the hour getting late. Back in the lobby, the gentlemen kissed the hand of each lady, thanked them for a thorough tour, and left.

"There Meg, you see? That wasn't so bad. They are both true gentlemen, nothing like the silly tenors you date."

Meg looked a little sulky. "At least I date." She stated flatly.

"What's wrong?" queried a very confused Christine.

"Nothing." Meg brightened a bit. "Did you notice, Christine? Raoul looked at you at least three times!"

"Did he? I didn't notice. I was too busy trying to think how to get them to end their tour early!"

Meg rolled her eyes and hugged her friend. "And now I suppose you must be getting to bed, lest your teacher descend from the heavens and take a cherry switch to you, no?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Goodnight, and don't dream anything that would embarrass you in confession!"

The idea of Meg embarrassing herself in confession kept a smile on Christine's face all the way back to her room. It was nearly eleven o'clock and she had a very important meeting at four in the morning. Instead of hanging her clothes, she laid them smoothed out on her bedroom chair. Her meeting in the morning was surely at least as important as the silly errand of this evening. These clothes were proving more useful in one day than they had in the entire preceding year she had owned them. She briefly considered wearing her Sunday white dress for the morning meeting, but decided against it. This was only the Angel of Music, not Mary or one of the Saints, after all.

The bed was cold. She had forgotten to put the bedwarmer on the hearth earlier, so she shivered while her body heat slowly warmed the sheets and down comforter. Her mind refused to quiet down and let her rest. Had Raoul looked at her? She did not remember anything unusual. What if he had, though? He was very polite, very handsome. She had never had a suitor, thanks to her Angel's strict rules of comportment, and wondered what it would be like to receive calling cards as some of the other girls did. He had not even heard her sing. She fell asleep wondering what it would be like to be noticed for something other than her voice.


	31. Erik

Her alarm chimed at three o'clock, rousing her from a deep slumber. For a moment she puzzled over why the sun was not up yet, and then remembered her appointment on the stage. She rose and pulled on her clothes, wincing as the cold fabric chilled her skin. She plucked at her sleeves, trying to puff them perfectly. Finally, she stood in front of the mirror, trying to think of something complimentary to do with her hair. She settled on a cascading high coiffure, thankful for her natural curls which saved her time and money on curling papers. A final check assured her that she had improved on her afternoon appearance.

For the first time it dawned on her that she had not even tried to imagine what her Angel would look like. As she padded down the hallways, her imagination worked to create images, all of which failed to match the _feel_ she had for him. Her stomach fluttered as it always did before a performance. He had left her with a warning, "_If you can remain long enough."_ Why shouldn't she remain? Long enough for what?

The grand proscenium stage loomed before her. The curtains were drawn closed. She thought she smelled the slightest whiff of smoke. Christine slipped between the curtains to find a peculiar but compelling scene. The sets from _A Midsummer Night's Dream _adorned the stage in sylvan beauty. Despite (or perhaps because of) the scandalous nature of the operetta, the theatre filled almost to capacity each night.

In the middle of the stage there was a small, round breakfast table. A scarlet rose adorned a crystal vase illuminated by three candles which stood in the center of the table. A bottle of wine rested in a chilling bin to one side. Two places were set with sparkling wine glasses. A chair was pulled up to the table in front of each of the glasses. Someone had pulled the immense concert grand piano onto the stage, but she had heard of no instrumental concerts to be given which was the only reason the grand piano ever made an onstage appearance.

That was all. She was alone here in the soft glow of candlelight. _If I screamed,_ she thought, _no one would hear me beyond those heavy curtains. Not to mention the huge theatre with the doors closed. _She shuddered and made herself walk to the table and sit in one of the chairs. She was a bit early and consigned herself to the wait.

Erik stood in the wings, watching her. He had never seen her consciously try to look pretty. The stage was supposed to be neutral territory between them, but she took ownership of it the moment she appeared through the curtains. She was waiting patiently for her Angel. He tried to speak and found himself without words. When had this happened? This girl with the silver voice, demure expression, and flashing eyes had somehow captured him in a cushioned trap of emotion. Now he had to follow through with his plan, had to reveal himself to her, knowing that she would run from him as she had before. She would run from him, his presence would inspire terror so that he could no longer teach her, and that would be the end of his dream.

"Angel?" she was still sitting, looking around expectantly.

Had she sensed him? He sucked in a deep breath and forced his feet to move.

"I am here, Christine. Look stage right."

Obediently, she turned to look offstage. Her chair clattered over as she sprang to her feet. She started to back away, looking for a safe exit. The figure materializing from the darkness was tall, broad shouldered and imposing. He wore a fine tuxedo, heavy Opera cape, a bowler, and…the white mask. Her feet carried her to the split in the curtain.

"Do not run." His voice sounded tired, softly despairing. It was her Angel's voice. "If you run, I shall not follow you. If you stay, we will solve your problem. Just sit and take some wine with me. You are as safe with me now as you have ever been. Please."

Her back was to the curtains. She hovered there, watching him with those piercing dark-blue eyes. Years had passed since he last met another person's gaze; hers burned him with its intensity. As he watched, though, fear turned to anger. She crossed the stage towards him, stopping a bare two yards from where he stood. To any other person, she would still have seemed a great distance away, but this was the closest Erik had been to any human being in over fifteen years.

She looked him up and down; he felt as though he were back in the cage, naked before the crowd. Of all the things he had imagined she might do, this was not among them.

"You are no Angel."

"No."

"You are the Phantom."

"Yes."

"You lied to me."

Christine struggled to hold her calm as this thing in front of her admitted that the last seven years of her life had been a complicated deception. Her father had not sent an Angel, she realized, and tasted bitter tears in her throat. She was not favored by Heaven because of her voice. Instead, she had been living an illusion created by this masked…what? Certainly not an angel. A ghost? Her memory gave her a picture of a hunched form playing Liszt's Liebestraum in the small dark room. Only a man?

The habits of seven years could not be obliterated easily, even by a revelation such as this. His existence had become a piece of her own, and even with the evidence staring her in the face, she could not reject him. She could not deny the power he held over her. She was still here, when she should have run. _Run,_ she commanded her feet, but they would not.

"I did only what was necessary." Erik drew himself up stiffly, ignoring his heart's wild beat and his desire to beg her forgiveness. How dare she question him? Was her voice not sublime because of him? He had given her music, had lifted her up from grief. He had killed for her! His powerful voice overpowered the deadening effects of the thick curtains.

"Would you prefer, mademoiselle, to have been left to the mercy of the Opera Populaire's voice _coaches_? To have been thrust into anonymity in the ballet dancers' dormitories? I have done nothing that was not in your best interest! Would it have comforted you after your father's death to be visited by the _Opera Ghost_?" he spat this last, then whirled away from her and stalked to the piano.

He sat down and let his fingers play over the keys, the rich tones instantly returning his equilibrium. She was here for a reason. Let the lesson begin. The opening notes from Queen of the Night's angry aria, Der Holle Rache, from _The Magic Flute_ swept across the stage. "Sing, Christine. Show me what this 'lie' has taught you!"

The music pounded in her mind, along with his order. The music commanded and demanded. She watched his very human hands fly over the keys, repeating the first notes over and over. Her resistance deteriorated, even though her fury and disillusionment remained. And though she now knew he was no Angel, that Voice exhorted her. "Sing!"

Her voice was cold, he had offered no warm-up, and this piece was challenging for the most accomplished vocalist. It didn't matter. She was not singing; the music was dragging the words from her mouth, infused -burning- with her anger. She sang in defiance, in disillusionment, without regard for technique or convention. Erik forced his fingers to continue their work, even as he heard his dream burst into divine reality.

Had he heard her sing before this night?

The music stopped. Her breath came in harsh gasps, he had not yet dared to breathe. He closed his eyes and smiled. She had achieved sublimity. She would be the Queen of the Night, Aida, Carmen; she would have any role that pleased her. Fearing to break the fragile magic spun by their music, he slowly rose to face her. She was standing fixed in place, cheeks flushed with emotion, one disbelieving hand lightly touching her throat. Astonishment widened her eyes and made them sparkle.

_Angel of Music, _he thought deliriously.

"My Angel of Music," she whispered, echoing his awed thoughts. "Whatever you may be. Forgive me for doubting you."

The wine glasses sparkled on the table while the ice melted around the bottle of fine Chardonnay. The candles were half burned; melted wax pooled on the tabletop.

Bolstered by their triumph, Erik walked sedately to Christine's side. "Mlle. Daae, would you take some wine with me?"

In a soft haze of bewilderment, Christine followed her teacher, detachedly noting the perfect synchronicity of his movements. He guided her to the table, pulled her chair out, and waited for her to sit. She watched, mesmerized, as he uncorked the bottle and poured a modest serving into each of their glasses.

He lifted his glass to her. "A toast, to the Angel of Music."

His visible lower lip curved into a sardonic smile. She lifted her glass and touched it lightly to his, then sipped the wine. As the light, sweet flavor cooled her mouth, she felt her presence of mind returning and with it, a measure of pragmatism. Yes, she could accept the truth of her Angel, but as his mask glowed a muted white in the diminishing candlelight, she had to wonder, _Who is this man? S_he realized there were questions to be asked. For example:

"How did you send your voice into my apartment?"

Erik swallowed his mouthful of wine. That she would be curious about him was natural and healthy. He would answer some of her questions, if he could.

"I have learned certain…tricks…with my voice. Behind the mirror in your parlor, there is a small room. If…" he paused, staring sightlessly into the candle, "If you still wish to continue our lessons, I will show you a little lever that allows the glass to swing inward."

"You have _watched_ me in my private quarters?" her feminine modesty recoiled from the thought.

"Never without alerting you to my presence, and only in your parlor, I swear." In retrospect, he was glad of his unwavering adherence to that policy.

Christine was accustomed to his reading his voice; she recognized his sincerity. She relaxed a little, feeling the second serving of wine gently warming her blood. The Opera Ghost rolled the long-stemmed wine glass between his dexterous fingers and watched the pale liquid swirl.

"Why do you wear that mask?"

The swirling stopped. His reply carried the weight of a threat, wrapped in a plea. "Never ask that question again, and all will remain harmonious between us." His tone became formal. "It is almost dawn. You should be returning to your room." He stood and bowed to her, a clear indication that their meeting was at an end. He was halfway to the wings of the stage when she called to him,

"What is your name?"

He did not stop. From the darkness beyond the stage his answered floated to her.

"Erik."


	32. Faust

The Opera Populaire hosted a production of Faust once every year, one week after the glamorous masquerade ball, a tradition that drew many of the finest performers and patrons of the arts together for a night of high-brow revelry. For nearly fifteen years, La Carlotta played the lead role of Marguerite. Many whispered that if she continued in the role, the tradition would have to end for the sake of the patrons' well-being. With no viable replacement, and no desire to confront the volatile diva, the managers felt helpless. Increasingly annoyed letters from the Phantom of the Opera further enflamed an already uncomfortable situation.

_My Dear Messieurs, _

_The screechings of that woman torment me. She may be suitable for a role as a grandmother or servant woman, but she is no longer a diva. See that you find some replacement for her before opening night. If you cannot do so, she may develop serious health problems, requiring the cancellation of the entire event. We would not want an epidemic on our hands. _

_Thank you for your prompt (as always) payment of my salary. _

_Your Obedient Servant, _

_The Opera Ghost. _

"He cannot be serious. Does he not know that no suitable replacements have auditioned? Pierre, this is not our fault!" M. Debienne wrung his hands. Since his very frightening encounter in the theatre, he had been most solicitous of M. le Phantom's wishes. Sometimes he started awake in the middle of night, the sensation of a velvet rope across his throat a fleeting nightmare.

M. Poligny peered at his anxious coadjutor. Though he sympathized with the man's fear of the Opera Ghost, he did not think the Phantom's threats were their primary problem. Their diva's voice was failing, there truly was no replacement in sight, and the annual ticket sales were slumping lower with each passing year. They could host orchestra nights occasionally to showcase the work of popular composers, but they were an _opera _house. If they did not find a new leading lady before rehearsals of _Faust _began, this year's production would likely be a wash; something the new owners might take exception to, which would prove fatal to the careers of the administrators responsible.

"Calm yourself, Francois. We will hold open auditions. Surely there will be someone capable of singing Margeurite passably."

"Open auditions for the leading lady's role in Faust? It will be a scandal! La Carlotta will be furious." M. Debienne was not a brave man; he abhorred confrontation. The diva had always frightened him with her violent temper tantrums that often involved breaking porcelain and flying footwear.

"Have you a better alternative?" asked M. Poligny irritably. "If so then…"

He was interrupted by an echoing voice that sent both managers cowering behind their desks.

"I think, Messieurs, that open auditions are an excellent idea. You may come out from hiding. I am not here to harm you, but to give you notice. If you can produce a suitable soprano for me, in two years I will give you in return an opera that will justify every cent you have paid me over the years, not counting the numerous services I have done you. This is a promise. If you cannot produce such a voice, I will have you replaced. This is _also_ a promise. Good evening gentlemen"

Silence persisted in the large office for several minutes. Before either man felt safe to speak, they each had time to consider their salaries, their health, and their comfortable positions in the Paris opera world. They had time to scrutinize each other accusingly, as if the Phantom's intrusion was solely the responsibility of the other.

"Well," M. Poligny cleared his throat and attempted to sound authoritative. "I suppose that seals it. Open auditions this Friday, no comer turned away."

M. Debienne huffed indignantly. "If M. le Phantom wants to justify his salary, why doesn't _he_ find a soprano?"

"Shhh, Francois! Do you wish to bring him down on our heads?" M. Poligny looked around as though the Ghost could be seen floating in any corner.

Inside the passageway behind the office walls, Erik laughed into his sleeve. For all the headaches they caused him, these two managers were an excellent source of amusement. Why didn't he find them a soprano? _I found her, trained her, and now they want me to deliver her. On a silver platter, preferably. What do _they_ do to justify their salaries, I'd like to know! _He threw his cape over his shoulder and sauntered down through the passageways and through the labyrinth he had finally completed that obscured the path to his home.

Once there, he sat down to his desk and began carefully writing the overture of the opera that now played continuously in his mind. He had composed many pieces, but none of this magnitude, nothing that gripped him in an iron fist of obsession quite like this. It was written specifically to the possibilities of two voices - his and Christine's. It would take him at least the two years he had promised the managers, and it would be magnificent.

News of the open auditions spread like wildfire through the Opera. M. Debienne was right; it was a scandal. La Carlotta was at the managers' door within five minutes of the posting. She did not bother with knocking. She barged in, her shoe in hand, already screeching – one fo the 'bad habits' that had ruined her voice.

"How is this? How is this? There are no auditions for the _Faust_! I am Margeurite! You will take that sign down now, or I will leave this Opera, never to return!" She hurled her shoe at M. Debienne, who was alone in the office. He dodged, and she began unbuckling her other shoe.

"Madame! Madame, please! Calm yourself. It is…it is the order of the new owners, and no decision of mine. You must attend the audition, sing only a little bit, and I am sure the role will be yours, as always." He bowed and scraped, trying to maneuver himself to the door. He slipped out the door and closed it behind him in time to avoid her shoe, but not her parting words.

"La Carlotta does not _audition!"_


	33. Je Ris

Christine was five minutes late for chorus rehearsal, thanks to a particularly difficult passage on music theory Erik was having her translate from the original Italian. She had not yet heard about the infamous auditions. When she walked in the room, everyone ceased their warm-ups. She felt their stares like a heavy rain against her skin. M. Besson seemed surprised to see her. "Christine, what are you doing here?"

"Have I been suspended from the chorus, Monsieur? What have I done?"

He laughed, a rich, deep sound that eased her anxiety. "No, no. I only thought you would be preparing your audition piece already. I knew you would not stay in my chorus very long."

"Monsieur, I am sorry, but I have no idea what audition you are referring to."

"For _Faust, _Christine, where have you been?"

"Translating Aretino, and not enjoying a moment of it." She was still struggling with one passage in the back of her mind. "Wait. Did you say 'for _Faust'?_

"The entire Opera's buzzing with it, and the one person who should be most excited is off translating dusty Italian. Christine, as your choral director, I instruct you to march straightaway to the managers' office and sign the call sheet. Then you must head to the music library and pick your audition piece. Make it something spectacular." He smirked at her standing there, open mouthed. "Go!"

Christine was out the door before he could finish his command, walking with more self-control than she felt towards the managers' office. There, beside the door was a white sheet of paper that called back memories of her fifteenth birthday. That call sheet had been full of names; this one bore only La Carlotta's melodramatic flourish. The implications of challenging Carlotta's right to the lead role made Christine falter, until she imagined Erik's reaction to her cowardice. Her hand steadied, and she signed her name in her clear, neat script. As she descended the stairs, she passed a glowering Carlotta, but gave no sign that she saw the evil look on the other woman's face. She curtsied politely and said, "Buon pomeriggio. I look forward to your audition piece," before walking on.

Once back in her apartment, she sank into her father's chair. This was the path she had to walk, but it promised to be difficult. She did not doubt her ability to succeed in the audition. It was the certainty of Carlotta's hatred that daunted her. No one had opposed Carlotta's will in years. She was infamous for the vendettas she carried against dressmakers who sewed her hem too low, basses who rumbled over her in duets, and servants who made too much noise cleaning her hearth. What would she do against a young upstart soprano whose first move in the opera was to attempt to usurp her as diva? As she sat in painful contemplation, she heard her name murmured softly from the direction of the mirror. Erik had come. She smiled, welcoming the interruption.

"Come in, Angel." He was no Angel, he was Erik, but in her judgment the two were one and the same.

The glass swung inward, and Erik stepped into the room, looking vaguely ill at ease in his bearing. "I am pleased to see that you have been brave enough to add your name to the call sheet." His lower lip curled in what Christine guessed must be a smile. "Not one of the other sheep in this place has dared."

She lowered her eyes shyly. "I thought of you, and our music the other night. We have worked so hard, for so many years…"

"It would be a pity to waste such talent in lesser roles. Have you selected a piece?" He stayed where he had entered, unsure of the etiquette to use when one entered a lady's room via her mirror.

"The Jewel Song, of course," replied Christine, unconcerned. "Erik, she's going to do everything she can to make life unpleasant."

Erik closed his eyes and savored the sound of his name coming from her lips. It had been fourteen years since he'd heard anyone speak his name. The sound was intoxicating. But this business of La Carlotta brought him back to infuriating reality. "La Carlotta has walked a dangerous line for many years now. If she becomes a problem, I will take care of her," his tone was so cold and ominous that Christine flinched.

"You wouldn't hurt her, would you? She has been faithful to the Opera, Angel, and it's not her fault that her voice is failing."

"Why do you defend her?" Erik was irritated by this inexplicable kindness Christine displayed towards a woman who was clearly attempting to dismantle the Opera single-handedly. "Her voice would not be failing if she did not abuse it with her _excesses_. She does not deserve your consideration."

"She doesn't know anything else. Please." If anything happened to the aging diva, Christine would feel personally responsible. She thought of all the terrifying things that had happened to other performers who displeased the Opera Ghost.

Heaving a sigh of aggravation, Erik capitulated. "Very well. If you do not want my help, you can deal with her on your own. Only know that if she becomes too damaging, I will defend my Opera. Now you must practice. Come to the mirror."

Christine stood next to him, looking at herself in the mirror that she now knew contained a passageway his world. He stood so close that she could smell the damp, musty scent of his clothes. It reminded her of the fishermen's houses on the edge of the lakes, or of the root cellars where old women grew their potatoes. There were no lakes nearby that she knew of, but there were basements. Did Erik…

Her thoughts were interrupted by impatient throat clearing. She had become so wrapped up in her contemplations that she failed to adopt her singing posture or begin her breathing exercises.

"You must concentrate, Christine. No matter what happens in the world around you, no matter what thoughts swirl in your mind, you must always be able to focus on the music. Posture! Do you think you will be able to summon that emotion whenever you want, just because it came to you on one night? Give me your full range on those scales. We will concentrate on your chosen audition piece today. You know what Margeurite is feeling in this piece; let me hear you sing it."

Christine drew herself up, smiled, and began to sing. She got only as far as "Ah! Je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir," when Erik stopped her, shaking his head. She was singing happily, but the emotion was flat, false.

"No. You are just pretending happiness, and that is where your fault lies. _Be_ joyful." He paused, "She feels beautiful, admired. Simply call up a time when you have felt that way."

Christine studied the floor. When had she last felt joyous? Not since her father's illness. She couldn't ever think of a time when she had "laughed to see herself so beautiful in this mirror." Her silence betrayed her thoughts.

"Nothing? We shall see. For now, focus on the words and breathing." Guilt pressured his speech. "You should have many such memories. I have been too strict. I am sorry…" he trailed off, not knowing how to apologize for the theft of her girlhood. "I shall return to you tonight, after dinner. Let your hair loose." He touched the lever and the glass swung open. He bowed to her and was gone.

Christine stared at the mirror in consternation. Never had he left a lesson before its end. His awkward apology and his curt request for her presence –with her hair down, no less, the mask that could not be mentioned, and that smell of basements all left her puzzling over the enigma of Erik. For a few moments she searched for the lever to open the mirror, but gave up easily. There was something forbidding about secret passages and masked men. It had been so much simpler when Erik was an Angel, not a man.


	34. Si Belle

The costume vault was an amazing place. In this place Erik had made himself a king, a pauper, a soldier, a god, and a gentleman. This last look suited him so well that he had adopted it permanently. The fine black material let him feel at home in a place that catered to the well to do. The stylish derby hat hid his colorless, wispy strands of hair, and pulled low over his mask. Whoever said fashion was useless was a fool.

Now, he examined rack after rack of women's costumes, searching for something that would compliment Christine's delicate coloring, deep blue eyes, her hourglass frame. An emerald toned satin dress caught his eye. It appeared to be about the right size, and the empire waistline and scooped neck would compliment her figure nicely. Next, he picked the lock on the jewelry cabinets. Margeurite needed her casket of jewels. He chose bracelets, a necklace, and then a net of pearls and crystals to drape over her hair.

With this treasure trove draped over his arm and filling his pockets, he next visited the servants' quarters where they would be cutting flowers for the evening dinner table. A distracting commotion outside the door drew the flower arrangers away from their work just long enough for him to glean a pretty bouquet, and one scarlet rose.

Christine would be out with Meg now, helping Meg and her mother set the dinner tables. He smiled dreamily to himself as he imagined Christine as the 'demure, chaste, and pure" Margeurite. She would be beautiful.

Meg watched Christine toying with her food yet again. Her friend had been strangely distant and even more reflective than usual recently. As they set up the dining room, she had said hardly a word. Meg touched Christine's hand to bring her back from the depths of her chicken linguini.

"Why, hello there! So glad you decided to join me for dinner. How was your journey?" Meg was smiling, but her expression clearly demanded an explanation.

"Meg, I want to tell you something, but if I do you have to promise to keep it absolutely secret from everyone." Urgency lent a tightness to Christine's voice that sounded alien to Meg.

"Do I need to swear on my feet again? Of course I promise. I've always kept your secrets." Meg was sincere. She couldn't imagine what sort of secret the bookish Christine might be keeping.

"All right. I have met my Angel. In the flesh." She stopped to consider Meg's appropriately stunned stare. "And it turns out that he is none other than…"

"Who, Christine?"

"Meg, if you squeal, or scream, I'll die on the spot."

Meg shook her head and put her hand over her mouth to let her skittish friend know that she wouldn't say a word.

"He is the Phantom of the Opera. The Opera Ghost. He was in my room earlier today, and I am to meet with him after dinner to practice my audition piece."

Meg's hand tightened over her mouth to stop the shriek that wanted to come. Her eyes widened until the entire white was visible. Christine being under the sway of the dreaded Phantom explained so much: the early nights, the long hours of practice, the bookishness, everything.

"Aren't you afraid of him?" Meg had long admired Christine's bravery in auditioning against Carlotta, in rejecting the fashions and frenetic lifestyle of the other Opera girls, but this was too much bravery.

"When I first found out who he was, I was very frightened, but then I was too angry to be frightened. But he was so gentle, and then he played for me such beautiful music to make me sing. He is very much the gentleman, as he has always been. And he really is an excellent teacher." Christine sounded as though she was pleading with Meg to believe her.

"Have you seen his face? They say he has no face, only a mask, and behind the mask is only darkness."

Christine's light laughter chimed across the refectory as she stood to leave. "No, Meg. I think he is as human as you or me. Maybe he is a fugitive who can't be recognized. Maybe he's a nobleman who has an eccentricity about the Opera. But I saw his hands, and they are flesh. I have to go to my lesson now."

Buoyed by her notion of the Ghost as an eccentric nobleman or an outlaw artist, Christine fairly skipped back to her apartment, shaking her curls loose of the tight braid and teasing them out with her fingers. When she walked in, she immediately saw the emerald dress draped over the leather chair. It shimmered softly in the light of a fire someone had stoked in the fireplace. More startling was the collection of sparkling jewels heaped on the end-table beside the chair. An envelope with her name in an ornate script leaned against a sapphire necklace. She opened it and read,

_Dear Christine, _

_Please perform your toilette and call for me. Try not to look in the mirror until you have finished with your preparations, and I have joined you. Indulge me in this, and I believe we will have our Margeurite._

_Your Servant In All Things, _

_Erik. _

Christine retired to her bedroom, laced herself into the dress and donned the jewelry. Her hair entwined with the strands of the netting, neatly holding it back from her face, but allowing it to tumble down her back in cascades of curls glistening with crystal and pearls. The dress itself was far more revealing than any Christine had ever worn. It was in keeping with the Opera, though, and so she found no real grounds for objection. She wondered how Erik had known her favorite color_. He knows so much about me_, she thought, _and I know nothing of him. _

She returned to the parlor, avoiding the mirror, and softly called his name. Eric entered the mirror chamber and touched the lever. When he saw what awaited him outside the glass, he again experienced the peculiar sensation that his strength had drained out through his legs. His chest constricted with a yearning ache that cut off his breath. Had he thought of her as pretty? Sacrilege. She was beautiful. A spirit, body and voice all designed to make angels weep with jealousy. _If only I were half so blessed, I would try to make her see…_

Christine laughed nervously. He had been standing motionless on the threshold between the mirror and her room for several minutes. "Angel? Will you come in and close the mirror? I haven't seen yet, and the way you are staring makes me wonder if I haven't missed some aspect of dress."

In a dream, he stepped out and closed the mirror behind him. In a whisper so low she had to strain to hear, he said, "Elle rit de se voir si belle en ce miroir…" and stepped aside.

Christine blinked, gasped, and began to laugh. "I'm…this is…I'm…" she turned to Erik, who was beginning to think she was laughing at his choice. So quickly he could not react to pull back, she had grasped his hands tightly in hers. "I'm beautiful…Angel, I am Margeurite!" She burst into song, feeling the flow of emotion through her, this time a giddy happiness.

Erik barely heard. His gaze was locked on those little, pale hands gripping his. Leslie had touched his hand in pity when he was broken and suffering so many years ago; he had forgotten what a friendly touch felt like. To have this beautiful nightingale clasp his hands in friendship and excitement was exhilarating, magical. With effort, he tore his eyes away from the spectacle of their clasped hands only to meet her sparkling eyes, which put the jewelry she wore to shame. He was about to speak, when a loud knock sounded at the door.

Christine dropped his hands and turned, calling "Who is it?"

Erik quickly touched the lever and was concealed in the mirror chamber before she could get to the door. Christine cracked the door open, to find the younger deChagny standing outside with a small bouquet of pinks and baby's breath. The door continued to swing open, and the young man outside stared at the room's exquisite occupant with amazement. After a moment, he remembered who and where he was and closed his mouth.


	35. The Young Man at the Door

"Good evening, Mademoiselle." Suddenly, his words were tumbling out in a torrent, barely decipherable. "I was coming to congratulate you on your decision to audition for the role of Margeurite. You and Carlotta. I was having trouble finding your apartment, even after the tour - were you not one of the young ladies who led that tour? And I heard the most beautiful, sweet voice singing the Jewel Song, so I supposed this must be the door. I've never heard such singing! I knocked and you answered, so it was the right door, I guess and…here." He began to thrust the flowers into her arms, but thought better of it and offered them with a gentlemanly bow and flourish.

Christine glanced behind her into the apartment to make sure that Erik was out of sight before she accepted the bouquet. "Why, thank you, M. deChagny…"

"Raoul, Mademoiselle, call me Raoul. I am not so attached to title as my brother."  
"Thank you. Raoul. The flowers are lovely. I must go put them in water." She turned to do so but he called after her.

"Madamoiselle Daae, I see that the flowers I brought are an insult to the lady. Please, accept my apology by joining me for dinner tomorrow night. You and an escort of your choice, of course. I will send a carriage to pick you up. There is a wonderful restaurant off of Rue Scribe called _Le Chateau Anglais. _If you would care to join me, that is."

He waited, but Christine only watched him, confused.

Raoul interpreted her confusion as affront at his forwardness. "Mademoiselle, forgive my boldness. Would you care to take dinner with me tomorrow at eight o'clock at _Le Chateau_ _Anglais_?"

Christine smiled. She had never been asked to dinner with a young man before. Then she thought of her strict teacher, waiting just beyond the mirror in the parlor. She blushed and stammered, "If you will leave your calling card, I will send you word tomorrow morning. I…I must ask leave."

Raoul was stunned. Any other girl in all of Paris would have accepted his offer before he could finish making it. He was the handsome younger brother of the Vicompte deChagny, and yet this solemn Opera girl had him standing in the hallway practically begging for an audience. That she had not shamelessly pounced in his invitation made her all the more alluring.

"Then I await your response eagerly. Good night, Mademoiselle Daae." He pressed his card into her hand, bowed, and left.

Trembling with excitement over her first date and nervousness over Erik's response, Christine put the flowers in a vase of water next to the beautiful bouquet Erik had left with the costume. The pinks, which had seemed sweetly pretty in the doorway, looked anemic next to Erik's offering. She returned to the parlor and stepped up to the mirror.

"Angel? Are you still here?"

Erik was, indeed, still there. He could not hear the conversation between Christine and the boy at the door, but he saw her accept the flowers and then accept his calling card. In the small chamber he stood gritting his teeth and pressing his fist painfully against the wall. The bliss of her touch was long evaporated. He felt despair and resignation. He could never compete in the suit of a young lady with such a man. Glad of the mask that covered his face, he stepped stiffly back into the parlor.

Christine saw the change in his demeanor, and waited for him to forbid her to go to dinner with Raoul. He appeared to be waiting for her to speak first.

"That was the Vicompte deChagny's younger brother, Raoul," she began.

"I am familiar with the boy." his rich baritone conveyed only contempt.

"He has asked me to join him for dinner tomorrow at _Le Chateau Anglais_," she began unconsciously playing with her necklace. "I'd like to go. I told him I'd have to ask leave…"

"Of whom? For what? I'm sure that a lady of your age is quite free to go as she pleases." Erik's tone was formal. His voice betrayed nothing of his anguish.

"You don't mind? We could meet earlier for our lesson." He was not going to forbid her; Christine's heart leaped in her chest.

"There will be no lesson tomorrow. Go, Margeurite, and enjoy the evening." _And may the devil take the boy._

Erik expected her to smile and thank him blithely. Instead, she laid her hand on his arm and turned her earnest gaze up to meet his. He smelled the fresh scent of her skin and the slightly dusty smell of the costume. She was only trying to communicate her sincerity, but he felt every inch of his skin tingle with chills. She had touched him! Twice in one night!

"I don't want to miss my lesson with you. Could we, perhaps, practice on the stage again? Like before? Having accompaniment helps my timing and being on the…"

"If that would please you, we will meet on the stage. At three o'clock I shall be waiting."

Erik opened the mirror and pretended to leave, but after the latch clicked behind him, he stood and watched his lovely protege. She was executing a slow turn in front of the mirror and giggling. This was the girl he had not allowed her to be for so many years. He wondered at the painful thump of his heart in his chest.

Raoul deChagny had never shown himself to be anything but an honorable man. Perhaps he was not as bright as some, but he was as good as any. _And I doubt he is twice a murderer. _The bitter thought doused any jealousy he might have felt. Christine deserved to be courted by a normal man who could give her a normal date. No stages, no lessons...no masks.

"Go, Margeurite," he murmured, turning from the dancing girl. "Go and enjoy your dinner."


	36. An Outing

Mme Giry opened the door in her evening wrapper to see a smiling Christine (once again dressed soberly in her accustomed manner) bouncing happily on her threshold. This alone unnerved the good lady, not considering the late hour. "Good evening, Christine, are you…"

"Is Meg there, Madame? I have such news!"

Hearing her friend's excited voice, Meg dashed into the foyer, also in her evening clothes. Poor Mme Giry was nearly bowled over when Christine exuberantly ran to embrace Meg. She was acting so much like a regular seventeen year old that Mme Giry guessed the occasion and only waited to hear the young man's name.

"Meg, you will _never_ guess who just visited my apartment today."

"Who?" Meg had never seen Christine in such a state.

"Monsieur Raoul deChagny! He came to congratulate all the people auditioning – which it turns out is just Carlotta and me – but he ended by asking me for a date…"

Meg squealed and began bouncing with her friend, too happy for Christine to feel any jealousy. "He didn't!"

"He did. And here's the best part. To be proper, I need an escort. Will you be my escort, Mademoiselle Giry? To Le Chateau Anglais?"

"Of course I will. And, you know we have to go shopping. Maman? Has Christine got any money this month?"

"I suppose that's Christine's business, ma chere."

"Why do we have to go shopping?" Christine puzzled.

"You need at least a new dress. And some combs for your hair. And a necklace. Oh Christine, you can't go out on a date as though you were studying in the library!"

Christine relented with only a little more convincing. Immediately after commissioning a servant to carry her polite, "I would be honored to join you for dinner," to the deChagny estate, Christine was whisked off to find a suitable toilette for her date. Though her choices were more modest than modish Meg would have preferred, she finally picked a green dress, silver combs for her hair, and a pretty mock-sapphire necklace. Meg took full advantage of the unusual chance to fuss over Christine, acting as her lady's maid. When hair, jewelry, and dress were perfected, the two girls went to the lobby to wait.

Raoul was also dressed for the occasion in fine evening wear. He smiled to see Mlle. Giry sitting with Mlle Daae. The two were obviously inseparable friends and the picture they made together was sweet. Before speaking a word, Raoul presented Christine with a corsage of white chrysanthemums, which she pinned to her shoulder.

"Good afternoon, ladies," He gently lifted and kissed their hands. "The carriage waits outside. I trust you are ready to go?"

Meg giggled and nodded, blushing. Christine smiled that small, reserved smile of hers and dipped into a delicate curtsy.

"Of course, Monsi…I mean, Raoul."

The carriage was a small, but luxurious, four-horse affair. Raoul stepped in and offered his hand to assist the ladies. Meg took her place with the assistance of the footman to assure that the Christine and her beau did not sit scandalously close to one another. Christine scowled at her briefly before climbing in.

The rest of the evening passed with fairy-tale dreaminess. He sat across from her, smiling and joking lightly, smiling each time he caught her eye. The food was delicious, the conversation very proper, and the atmosphere lively. Christine found that Raoul preferred light conversation and avoided weighty topics. He was unerringly polite, taking especial care that Meg not feel ignored. Christine smiled at him more and more easily as the night passed. When dinner was done, Raoul offered Christine his arm, and walked her to the carriage.

As she stepped in, he asked, "Did you enjoy yourself tonight?"

"Oh yes, Raoul. Thank you. Everything was splendid."

"I'm glad. Would you like to take tea with me at our estate this Sunday after Mass?"

Christine would have happily accepted, except that she felt a sharp elbow digging painfully into her ribs. Meg interrupted and took control of the situation.

"Mme Giry and I would like to invite both you and Christine to take tea with us in the Opera parlor on Sunday after Mass." She lowered an eyebrow and cast a dark glance over the eager young man. "I hardly think it would be proper for Christine to come to your home, M. deChagny, when there are no Lady relatives present. "

"Of course, Mademoiselle. It will be a pleasure to take tea in the company of such lovely ladies. Adieu." He had the goodness to look a bit shamefaced over his improper invitation. Meg was entirely correct.

As the carriage pulled away, Meg giggled and tugged Christine's hand. "Can you imagine! Asking you to his home after just one date…how gauche! I suppose he thinks you are just some loose Opera coquette. Well, we'll show him exactly what a Lady you are."

"Am I, Meg?" Christine was not so sure an orphaned opera singer counted as a Lady.

"Of course you are. Maman and I have been watching the patrons come and go for years. We will show you how to handle the M. deChagny without a single misstep. You must, above all things, keep your honor or he will not be interested in you any more, and your reputation will be ruined."

Christine had not considered her reputation. Currently, she was well known for her Quakerish modesty, and her reserved demeanor. Women in the Opera who allowed their reputations to slide often found themselves without jobs. If the managers didn't shift them quickly enough, the Opera Ghost did.

Erik!

If she did not behave with perfect decorum Erik would abandon her, and the mere thought of losing his regard pained her.

"Thank you, Meg. I wouldn't want to be like Marie Lecroix." The giggling girl from the night before was gone; in her place sat the old Christine, studious and contemplative. When she spoke, it was to change the subject entirely. "It is only a week until the audition, Meg. I haven't heard a peep from Carlotta. Do you think she has decided to play nicely?"

Meg thought about it. La Carlotta was never one to be quiet about a perceived slight, and the managers' decision to hold open auditions definitely qualified as a slight. No one had heard any complaints from the bilious woman. Meg thought Carlotta seemed more shifty-eyed than usual, but that was not the sort of thing one told one's anxious friend. "I don't know, Christine. Watch out for her, but if she's going to do something, I'm not sure anyone could stop her."

Christine's cool gaze cut towards Meg, "Someone could."

Meg slowly raised her hand to her mouth. The one person of whom the fiery little woman was frightened was her competitor's voice teacher. Christine's Angel might well provide some protection against anything Carlotta might dream up. But what would he do to Carlotta? Christine was settled comfortably in the carriage seat, staring out the window at the lights of Paris, her expression unreadable. Meg hoped for everyone's sake that La Carlotta quietly conceded the victory to Christine.


	37. Foolish Promise

For three mornings in a row, Christine padded down the silent pre-dawn hallways to the stage. Each morning, Erik materialized from the wings, sat down at the piano, and rehearsed her audition piece. Her flaws were few when she began; after the second night, they were non-existent. Her voice had never been so like spun silver. Every nuance of the piece was drawn out, picked apart, and perfected.

After her date with Raoul, Erik carefully kept himself at a distance from her. It was painful to be so near her and yet be completely unable to reach her. He could no longer allow her within arm's reach and moved agilely away when it seemed she would come too close. His speech was so formal it felt strained. He was trying futilely to crush the blossoming tenderness he felt towards her. The beautiful opera he was composing had suddenly developed a dark counterpoint. Bitter strains and discords worked their poisonous way into arias that were once pure and sweet.

He watched Christine standing by the piano, smiling and singing to the empty stage. She was entirely innocent of his pain. He took great care to let her see nothing but his desire to teach her, no matter how brutally his heart fought his mind. A mere two lessons left him weak from the struggle and he understood that some compromise between his heart and mind would have to be reached.

_I know her as I know this opera. Every curve of her lips, every lifting of her eyebrow speaks to me. For eight years I have taught her. She must have learned something of me. Let us see how well she hears me. After the Masquerade, we shall see._

Christine noticed her Angel's formality and felt his coldness. She thought it must have something to do with her dinner date. It made no sense! She had acted with perfect decorum; how could he be upset with her? Maybe he was concerned that she would allow her relationship with Raoul to interfere with her music.

"Angel, are you angry with me?"

"No." He repeated the phrase they were working on. "Watch your key transition. You are trying to transpose."

"I am not letting anything interfere with my music, I promise." She studied him, trying to read his thoughts from his posture and tone.

"Of course not. Now, please get back to said music. You audition in two days."

"I'm to take tea with him in the parlor tomorrow after Mass." She watched his shoulders tense at the mere mention of her suitor. So, that _was_ the problem.

"I need more consonant sounds. You are allowing your Ts and Ds to dissolve." His words came like ice.

"Mme Giry and Meg will both be there. I promise you that I am acting in every way a Lady. Nothing untoward has happened or will happen."

He sighed, gave up trying to make her concentrate, and closed the piano. Why must she continually throw her courtship in his …face… "Christine, you have never disappointed me with your deportment. I trust you to behave as you ought with the boy. I do not, however, trust that you will be able to sing with perfection if you do not practice. Just let us get through this piece one time tonight, and you may go."

"Do you live in the basements?" This non sequitur, delivered dead pan and with no deliberation, threw Erik completely.

"You…how…" he tried to frame his thoughts coherently. "Why are you asking me this?"

"You've been a guest in my home. I don't even know where yours is. You carry a scent of cellars and you seem always to be nearby. You are a man, not an Angel who lives in heaven, or a Ghost who doesn't live at all, so I want to know: do you live in the basements?"

Pictures of the faerie-land he had painstakingly constructed over the years flashed through his mind. The hanging fabrics, the soft lantern lights shining off the rippling waters of the lake; all of these things designed to please his aesthetic tastes. Basements were cold, dark, dreary places where spiders and rats joined forgotten oddments.

He felt that he could answer her truthfully without giving himself away. "No. I do not live in the basements. If you wish to see my home, practice this piece. Audition and win the role of Margeurite. After your triumphant debut, I will take you to see my home. Agreed?"

The deal seemed fair enough. Christine nodded and turned to the piano, reassured that he was not angry with her, and once again ready to practice. Erik could have bitten off his own tongue. Why had he promised to take her to his home? He thought of all the traps and alarms he had set in the passageways, of the elaborate labyrinth he had built to steer any intruders away. All of that effort, and now he had promised to bring an outsider right to the heart of his sanctuary. Surely this changeling girl had bewitched him!


	38. Honey on Toast

After mass, Christine met with Meg to begin preparing tea. The two girls decided to bake delicate teacakes, to serve along with tea and fresh fruit. Mme Giry showed up shortly after they began work and settled into the plush chair near the fireplace with her knitting. Meg grinned impishly at Christine until the more reserved girl finally lost patience.

"Why are you smiling at me like that, Megan Giry?"

"Oh, how can you even ask? You are granting the most eligible bachelor his _second audience_ with you. I don't know how you did it, Christine. You are certainly a pretty girl, but you never leave the library. You know that all the other girls are terribly envious of you…"

"Are they? Honestly, I don't know what it is that Raoul sees in me – I'm no prettier than you." She paused in setting out the tea service. "He _is _a very nice young man, is he not?"

Meg laughed merrily. "He's the younger brother of the Vicompte, who will someday be Compte, and when his brother has passed on, _he_ will be the Compte. This must be the most exciting thing that has ever happened to you!"

_I'm not at all sure of that, _thought Christine.

A soft knock signified Raoul's arrival. After he had made his bows to Mme Giry, Meg offered him a chair opposite Christine. She busied herself serving tea while Raoul and Christine looked for something to talk about. Finally, the conversation veered towards the audition to be held the following day.

"How long have you known you would sing in the Opera?" Raoul asked.

His class was suspicious of performers; they had a reputation of being flighty and immoral. Women in the performing arts were especially suspect. Opera singers usually did not even wear a proper corset, but opted for different types of undergarments. Though by the girth of her waist she subscribed to the no-corset school of thought, this girl was not immoral or unrestrained at all. He did not understand music or the irresistible pull it influenced over those who heard its siren call. He thought she must have been thrust into this life unwillingly, and mused over how nice it would be to deliver her into a proper domestic life for a young lady.

"I have known that I would sing since I was a very small girl. My father was a violinist unparalleled. Before he died, he bade me become a great lady in the Opera, and that is what I have striven to become. If I earn the role of Margeurite, I will feel as though I've begun to fulfill that dream. If not, I know I must work harder."

Unable to understand from an artist's perspective, Raoul thought about this from his brother's perspective. Christine was certain to land the role. She was a perfect Margeurite, and though he was only an opera amateur, he could tell that her voice was extraordinary. This meant that she would generate ticket sales and increase the theatre's profitability.

"I don't think there's any doubt who will play Margeurite. I, for one, look forward to your performance. I have heard that you have a mystery voice teacher whom no one has ever seen. Who is he?" Raoul meant his question to be amusing, but Christine paled.

"He…I have never seen him. He hides himself even from me. And he prefers not to be discussed. Would you like some more tea? Sugar?" She saw Meg quirk an eyebrow at the lie.

She was maddening; Raoul grew more fascinated with every passing moment. Because he was a gentleman and tried to accommodate a lady in every way, he changed the subject. "How long have you lived in Paris? Your French is perfect, but I detect the slightest Swedish accent."

Christine launched into that story and when she was done, Raoul asked about her childhood in Sweden, her opinion on the latest fashions, and other harmless sundries. He did not return to the sensitive subjects of music, opera, and teachers; none of which interested him very much anyway. When tea was over, signaled by Mme Giry standing up with a yawn, Raoul offered his hand to assist Christine from her chair. Once she was standing, he was loath to let go. She firmly retrieved her hand, but smiled at him sweetly.

"I have enjoyed tea very much, Raoul." Meg had instructed her never to make an invitation to a gentlemen until she was engaged to him. It was more proper for a young lady to wait for friends or the young gentleman in question to make such a proposition. Raoul did not make her wait long.

"I would like to see you again, Christine. The weather has begun to warm quite a bit. A picnic by the lake would be lovely, don't you think?" he watched Christine glance to Mme Giry, who nodded.

"I wouldn't mind an outing to the lake, would you, Meg?" Mme Giry thought nothing of inviting herself along. Someone had to watch out for the young Daae, and since she had no family, it fell to Mme Giry and Meg to protect her virtue.

"Next Friday then? We will share a picnic lunch in the park; I'll bring some poetry to read to you. Au revoir, ladies." He walked away jauntily whistling and buffing his hat.

Meg took Christine's hand and pulled her conspiratorially close. "I think he is serious about courting you, Christine! He has never been known to ask after the same young lady more than once. Do you like him?"

Christine thought about it for a moment. Did she like Raoul? He was a nice young man and was always so polite and respectful. There was no reason not to like him.

"Yes, I like him well enough." she found her thoughts wandering away from Raoul, to the passionate music that accompanied her pre-dawn lessons and the mystery of her teacher. She liked Raoul, but she also liked a nice slice of buttered toast with a dollop of honey in the mornings.

"Maybe he will be your knight in shining armor! Can you imagine marrying him? You will have your every whim catered to. There would be servants to dress you and you'll take your meals in a dining room. You could throw parties and…"

"Do you think he would allow me to continue singing?" Christine interrupted.

Meg did not hesitate, "On the stage? Oh heavens, Christine, no! You could sing for company, and for your husband, but I'm sure that it would not do for the Vicompte deChagny's wife to sing in public!" Meg seemed so scandalized by the idea that Christine did not pursue the conversation. It was ridiculous that only by signing a marriage contract she would cease to exist as her own person.

The girls cleaned up the remains of tea and then Christine retreated to her private apartment to nap so that she could make her early morning lesson. Her audition was tomorrow. She had begun cosseting her voice, drinking warm herbal teas and speaking only within a very narrow range. A naïve part of her hoped that if she performed well enough at the audition Carlotta would be forced to admit that she deserved the role and would not hold a grudge for the defeat.


	39. The Grand Audition

The moment Christine entered the deserted theatre that morning, she knew this practice would be unlike any other. For one thing, the stage curtains were drawn open. Erik was seated in the first row, tapping his fingers on the rail of the orchestra pit. Christine walked slowly, contemplating the derby hat, which he never removed. It was the height of incivility for a man to leave his hat on in the presence of a lady, but Christine could not believe that her angel was consciously slighting her. _He must have some other reason_…

"Angel, I am here." she said, listening to her voice fill the acoustically perfect room.

He rose and bowed to her. "Welcome to your stage. I heard you warming up earlier this evening, so we will dispense with that and move straight to the point. Please go up on stage as though you were auditioning. Imagine that I am the managers and M. Reyeurre. They will all be there. Go on."

The lip of the stage seemed very high to her, as she stood there alone. They went through the basics of introducing oneself before an audition, and then she opened her mouth to sing and realized why Erik had opened the curtains. Volume that was perfect for the shrouded stage was lost when directed to the open theatre. The empty chairs absorbed the sound, and would do so even more when they were filled with well-dressed patrons. She instantly understood the need for increased power, increased volume, and increased clarity. Erik stared up at her; she could see the catlike green of his eyes behind his mask. _The judges will stare at me just so_, she thought.

After her first run through, Erik stood and applauded. It was the first time he had ever complimented one of her performances so openly. Normally, he would gruffly mutter, "That was passable," or "Well done." She blushed and looked down. He stopped applauding.

"No NO, Christine. When the audience applauds you - and they will once they catch their breath - you look _up_ not _down. _Smile! Don't look as though the audience wanted to eat you." She thought he was smiling; it was hard to tell. He made her smile, curtsy, and exit the stage. "You are ready Christine. I do not think we could bring this piece any closer to perfection. When you go to sing this morning, remember that. You are as near perfection as an earthbound creature can be. If they compliment you, it is because you _are_ great. If they insult you," his eyes flashed with premeditated anger, "it is because they know you are greater than they could ever dream of being."

"Thank you, Erik. Your praise means more to me than succeeding in the audition." It was a true enough statement. Why, then, did her cheeks begin to glow a warm pink?

His hand rose as though he would touch her, but continued its arc to fussily straighten his hat. "Good day, Christine. Rest until the audition and let no one intimidate you, no mater how hard _she_ might try. I will be there, though you may not see me," and he was gone.

Christine floated back to her rooms. She did not feel the floor beneath her feet or the lifting chill of the night air. Her Angel had applauded her. She lay back in her father's chair, sipping warm tea and smiling to herself. When it was time to audition, she felt no fear.

The audition did not deviate one whit from the way Erik said it would be. The two managers and M Reyeurre were seated in the front row, each holding pen and paper. Carlotta stood rigidly in the wings, massaging her throat. Luciana sat at the piano, eyeing the music with a distinctly bored look on her swarthy face. This piece was old hat, repeated ad nauseam.

M Poligny stood and cleared his throat. As though there were dozens of candidates, he spoke loudly and slowly. "We are ready to begin. Would the first candidate please come downstage?"

La Carlotta brushed past Christine with a haughty sniff. She took her place proudly, and gestured to Luciana to begin playing without so much as a curtsy to the judges. Every person in the room had cause to wince more than once; Carlotta had clearly not rehearsed or warmed up. Her range was restricted, causing her to rasp the higher notes. Her delivery was harsh and pretentious.

_She is not laughing in the mirror, _thought Christine, _she is sneering at it._

When she had finished, M. Debienne applauded dutifully. M. Poligny appeared to be absorbed in the relief carvings of cherubs above the stage. Christine wondered if he had heard a single note. M. Reyeurre was trying to look as though he had not just been brutalized musically.

Determined to change the thinly veiled sour looks on all three faces, Christine waited until M. Poligny called for, "The next candidate, please." She walked downstage, imagining that she was back in her parlor, draped in costume jewelry, wearing the satiny gown. She introduced herself in mild tones.

"The Jewel Song, please, Luciana." she requested, and Luciana began playing.

Christine blocked out the sound and imagined her Angel's rendering of the same piece. A smile bloomed on her face, and she began to sing. By the time she finished with, "_La, ce n'est plus ton visage; Qu'on salut au passage_!" Luciana's playing had become lively, almost performance-worthy.

She surveyed the judges with satisfaction. M. Poligny was staring at her with the same blank wonder of a decade before. M. Debienne was grinning like a mad monkey and M. Reyeurre was muttering to himself and taking notes as fast as he could scribble. Her eyes caught the slightest movement from the box seats and she knew her Angel was there. The only look of displeasure was Carlotta's dangerous glower.

M. Debienne stood, looking terribly nervous. Christine almost pitied the poor man.

"We… the judges, that is, have come to a decision. The lead role of Margeurite will be played by…" he licked his lips and cleared his throat, 'Mlle Daae." Carlotta emitted a high pitched sound of disgust and got up to stalk from the room. M. Debienne watched her go, his eyes widening as he imagined the temper tantrum brewing, and then continued, "and the understudy will be la Carlotta."

Christine graciously thanked the judges. Now the great work of rehearsal, memorization, blocking, and more rehearsal would begin. Her days would be filled with tedious repetitions and curt commands from the director and the Maestro. She would doubtless be shown up repeatedly as a novice to the stage. She was deliriously happy.


	40. Carlotta's Revenge

Meg heard the rumors before Christine ever left the audition: La Carlotta was on the warpath. She had stalked out of the audition, uttering a thousand complaints against the managers and that "little blonde wretch" who was trying to usurp her rightful place on the stage. She drew a large crowd very quickly with her ranting, and declared that the fates would not allow this injustice; La Carlotta would play the lead as always. No scheme to remove Christine was mentioned but, as Clara said, "she was positively weasel- eyed." The woman was up to something, as Meg told her mother, and Christine's debut was in danger before she had even held the sheet music.

Erik was jubilant. His Christine would finally be recognized for her genius. His marvelous instrument would soon take Paris by force of beauty. No longer would he be forced to suffer through endless hours of La Carlotta's painful performances. He would guide Christine, but she would need most of her voice and energy for the rigors of rehearsal. The pipe organ waited in the dimness of his cavernous home. He would not be teaching Christine as intensively in the intervening weeks. She would have to accomplish this triumph for herself. He had his own performance coming up; success in it was more critical to him than breath.

Over the next two months the Opera Populaire prepared for Faust and the Masquerade Ball. Dancers rehearsed until their slippers were in tatters and their feet bled. The orchestra kept to their regular hours, but small groups of musicians could be heard at odd hours practicing in the great lobby, in the theatre, anywhere they could find a space that would accommodate their instruments. Servants were hired in from everywhere in the city to clean, buff, and polish every inch of the massive building. Set artists and stage crews worked behind the scenes to prepare the elaborate decorations that would adorn every public area.

Christine rehearsed with the cast and practiced on her own. Her Angel visited her occasionally to guide her practice, but was absent more often than not. She had no time to wonder why he was suddenly unavailable. Every moment of her time was caught up in the particulars of the stage and music. This opera had to be ready in less than two months. The director had to deal with a complete novice. Though her singing and emotional production were exquisite, she had to learn some acting technique and blocking.

Then there were her rendezvous with Raoul, always accompanied by Meg or Mme Giry, or both. Every moment they spent together fanned the flames of Raoul's growing infatuation with the sweet, serious girl - so unlike any girl he had ever known. Conversely, the more time Christine spent with Raoul, the more she could imagine the domestic, controlled, music-less life she would endure as the Mme deChagny. Still, he was a pleasant companion, and she enjoyed the time away from rehearsal.

The Masquerade Ball loomed as large in the Opera's collective mind as the production of _Faust. _Privately, everyone worked on ornate masks with beads, silk, satin, lace, and sequins. Christine and Meg, usually privileged to one another's deepest secrets, hid their masks from one another with giggly paranoia. Raoul tried to convince Christine to make her mask to match his, but she would have none of it.

As she worked, she thought of Erik and his mask. No question was forbidden to her but the subject of his mask. She wanted to know what lay beneath the smooth and featureless white plaster, but even to ask meant risking his singular fury. It was maddening. Her curiosity was overcoming her. As she worked on her mask, she constantly envisioned herself pulling the mask from his face, regardless of the consequences.

As Christine entertained these dark fantasies, La Carlotta was making real her own plot. She rung the bell of the deChagny estate and asked the butler to please make her introduction to the Vicompte.

"I have grave news concerning the Opera, and his brother. I think he will be very concerned to hear what I have to say."

Moments later she was admitted to the drawing room, where the Vicompte graciously received her. His polite, disinterested demeanor intensified and darkened as she spoke. When she was done, he escorted her to the door and ordered that his carriage be brought around at once. "Madame, I shall solve this problem without further ado. We cannot have any such disgrace." He followed her to the managers' office and closed the door behind them. When they emerged fifteen minutes later, Carlotta was beaming, deChagny looked grim, and the managers' looked frightened. They were headed in the direction of Christine's rooms.

Christine answered the knock on her door with a deep curtsy to the gentlemen, but no acknowledgement of Carlotta.

"May we come in, Mlle Daae? There is a serious matter we must discuss."

"Of course, Messieurs." She stood aside to let the group pass. They settled where they could in her tiny parlor.

The Vicompte did not bandy his words. "Mlle, you were recently given the part of Margeurite in the upcoming production of _Faust._ According to what I have gathered from Opera staff, you are also currently romantically involved with my brother. This poses a significant problem, since it would shame our entire family to have one of us involved with an opera singer. Because I am fond of my brother, I will not insist that the two of you cease your relationship. I cannot, however, have you making a spectacle of us by singing the lead role in an opera which would have your character seduced, pregnant, and a murderer before the final curtain fell. I am overruling the managers, and the Maestro. La Carlotta will sing the role of Margeurite."

Christine leapt to her feet and began to protest, but the managers shook their heads forbiddingly at her. She saw that they would not relent no matter what protestations she brought forth. Even if she denounced Raoul before every person in the room, the role was taken from her. The world became faint and ghostly in her eyes. She pressed her hand to her heart, which suddenly pained her. Not knowing what guided her words, she begged, "May I at least remain her understudy? Leave me that, at least. La Carlotta has never missed a performance…"

The managers looked to the Vicompte, who shrugged. Let the girl be an understudy. There was no name recognition in that, no danger to the deChagny name. M. Poligny nodded sympathetically. "Of course, Christine. There must always be an understudy. I do hope this hasn't upset you. It is more important that a beautiful young girl like you find a good husband, than that she star in an opera. You'll thank us later."


	41. Guardian Angel

On those words the troupe stood and bid Christine adieu. Christine politely showed them out the door, closed it softly, then sank to the floor in tears. Her chance was ripped away that quickly. All her work, all her sacrifice - all for nothing. What would Erik say? She looked to her Angel, as she always had in troubled times. Hoping he would hear her, she called out to him, quietly at first, then in increasingly loud sobs that echoed through the secret passageways and finally reached him, where he sat at his oaken table. It was less than ten minutes later that he arrived at her side.

"Christine! Are you ill? Are you hurt?" He saw no mark on the girl but the tracks of tears on her reddened face.

"No. They have taken Margeurite from me. Angel, they have replaced me with Carlotta, because of Raoul!" She painfully recited the sad story in a barely audible voice, not daring to look up at him, fearing he would blame her. He had warned her repeatedly over the years to allow no outside entanglements to interfere with her art. Now look at the mess she was in.

Erik listened to the story, forcing himself to remain quiet and still until the end. Christine had done no wrong, nor had the deChagny boy, as much as the Phantom would like to have placed the blame on the ridiculous boy's fashionably dressed shoulders. The blame lay with that shrew of a woman. He regarded Christine, her pretty face wet with tears, her head hanging in shame. La Carlotta would pay.

He gently placed one finger under Christine's chin and lifted her face to meet his gaze. "This is not your fault. You _will_ sing the part of Margeurite. I will…dispose…of La Carlotta."

Christine had never spoken to him about the legends of his past feats of terror, but now one surfaced in her mind. It was widely believed that Thomas had been murdered by the Phantom of the Opera. She had seen his quickly shifting temper; it was not entirely inconceivable to her that he might have "disposed" of Thomas. She did not want to be a party to murder.

"Angel, you won't _really _harm her, will you? Not like," she swallowed with difficulty, "like Thomas?"

"You heard about that." He sighed a low, unhappy sound. He would not lie to her, though he knew the admission would diminish him in her eyes. "I do not deny that I killed him."

Christine began to shrink away, but he only shook his head slowly.

"Please believe me when I tell you that I did nothing worse to him than would have been done when his…crimes…against the ballet girls were discovered. I only stopped him before he could do more harm." Her eyes held a deeper sort of betrayal – she really had wanted to believe him an angel, incapable of evil. _Unfortunately,_ he thought despondently,_ I really am just a man. _In an attempt to heal some of the breach, he continued. "If you do not wish Carlotta killed, I can promise you in good faith that she will survive. She cannot be permitted to do this thing, though. She must be removed. Hold yourself blameless, Christine, for anything that might happen. I will try to be just with her. Bonne nuit. Continue to practice your part. I will see you at the Masquerade Ball."

She watched him stand and leave through the mirror-chamber. Half her heart recoiled in horror from the callousness of her "Angel." He was an admitted murderer, though he insisted that the victim was deserving. Christine was not unaware of Thomas' disgusting reputation. Among the ballet corps there were numerous disgusting stories regarding the man; if Erik had caught him and punished him for these things, she hardly lamented the man's death. The other half of her heart reveled in his protection. She was powerless in the face of the Vicompte and the managers, but her avenging Angel was not. Either way, she could do nothing about the situation but follow her teacher's commands. She would rest, practice her part, and be ready.  
Word that La Carlotta had managed to oust Christine Daae from the Faust production spread throughout the Opera Populaire. Within a day there was not a scullery maid who had not heard of the devious deed. This was the Opera Populaire. Even the meanest servant had an ear for music, they knew the choice had to be political. Political choices were not uncommon – the friendly feelings quiet and demure Christine had inspired in the hearts of her contemporaries was.

The managers met a never-ending barrage of protests. Christine was perfect for the role, cried her defenders, her voice was sublime. Who exactly did they think they were, to substitute Carlotta's tired, ill used voice for Christine's perfection? Overwhelmed by the near-mutiny among their staff, the cowardly managers passed the blame onto the Vicompte, explaining that were it up to them, Christine would still be the leading lady. Raoul soon found that his visits were met with hostile glares rather than civil hellos.

The growing discontent might have done real damage had it not been time for the Masquerade. In true Parisian fashion, hostilities faded as all thought turned towards preparations for the party.


	42. Merciful Dispatchment

Christine had lived at the Opera Populaire for ten years. She had seen the preparations for the Masquerade each year, but never attended. At first she was too young and later she was too deep in her studies to bother. This would be her first ball and though she knew she should be excited, she simply was not.

Raoul had declared himself her escort. Though Christine was really in no mood to even look at his handsome face, she relented. A proper young lady would not attend the ball without an escort, and there was no one else who would do.

She and Meg acted as one another's ladies in waiting: arranging ball gowns, carefully coifing hair, arraying jewelry, and applying the lightest touches of make-up. Their masks were still hidden, to be worn only after the ball began. Meg left when Raoul arrived, winking at Christine.

"I'll see you at the unmasking. Be good, Christine. Don't do anything that would cause you shame in confession on Sunday!"

Blushing to the well groomed roots of her hair, Christine donned her mask and linked her arm with Raoul's. Raoul was at the height of his fashionable gentlemanliness. For his costume he had chosen the part of Oberon, king of the Faeries. He wore leather breeches and a silk shirt of silver, green, and brown which opened slightly more than was decent at the front to display a glimpse of his well muscled chest. His mask was beautifully decorated with silver dust, lustrous green leaves and brown vines which acted as ties. Christine wondered briefly who had done the exquisite work – it certainly was not Raoul himself.

Christine stood beside him, dressed as the Angel of Music. The choice was deliberate; she meant to remind all who saw her that she had fairly auditioned for, _and won_, the part of Margeurite. She had altered her Sunday frock to include flowing chiffon and frothing lace. On her back were strapped two large wings made of thin muslin and white goose down. Her mask was plain white with silver treble clefs and golden notes embossed on every broad surface. She had loosed her curls and donned the net of faux pearls and crystals which had inspired her to _become_ Margeurite.

The glittering couple drew many appreciative glances as they entered the ballroom. Lighthearted music filled the air. Several couples were already dancing in graceful rows and circles in the middle of the room. Before she could protest, Raoul was practically carrying her onto the dance floor. After a moment, she lost herself to the magic of the music and movement.

Only one man cut a more dashing figure than Raoul. A gentleman with imposing stature had come dressed as the Red Death. He was enveloped in a voluminous, floor length scarlet cape that swirled around him as he made his way around the room. Beneath he wore an outdated, but finely fitted cloth of gold tunic and breeches. Hs head was covered with a wide brimmed, ornately feathered scarlet hat. His mask, though was the thing that caused a stir among the guests. The man wore a death's head for a mask; such a hideous reminder of mortality that many present found it impossible to look away from him.

IT was whispered that this gentleman of regal bearing must be a nobleman of some rank. The few who spoke with him told others that he was as civil of speech as he was noble of bearing. Every step he took was shadowed by powdered and painted flock of gaily plumaged ladies. They admired the craftsmanship of his costume and asked him who his tailor was. The Red Death spoke gently in a low, pleasing tone, complimenting each but showing favor to none - until Carlotta approached.

"Ah, the diva!" The scarlet cloaked man bowed deeply to Carlotta, then turned towards the crowd. Even over the din of champagne-fueled revelry, Christine immediately recognized the voice. "More beautiful than the radiant beams of the sun, more enticing than the finest wine." She alone among the revelers noticed that when he turned away from the peacock-proud diva, he was no longer speaking of her.

"Speaking of which," he pulled a bottle from the depths of his cloak and poured some into his own glass. "I have the finest vintage in the opera. Madame, would you care to join me in taking the first taste? A toast to your success!"

Flattered by the attention, La Carlotta raised her own glass to allow him to fill it. He poured her a ladylike serving, then raised his own glass high, tapping it to gain the crowd's attention. "A toast!" he cried, catching Christine's eye across the crowded ballroom. "To the beautiful and talented diva of the Opera Populaire! Long may her golden voice grace the halls!"

A host of glasses were raised high and drained. La Carlotta swallowed every last drop in her cup before she felt the sting, and realized that the Red Death had not put his to his lips. The sting burst into a tingling, then a burning sensation. She screamed, dropped her glass and tried to scream again, but this time no sound came. All revelers froze, trying to comprehend the scene unfolding before them.

Red Death jumped on top of a table. He intended for everyone present to hear him. "This is the fate of those who oppose the Phantom of the Opera! Look on her suffering and weigh well your actions!"

He swirled his cloak, gestured, and smoke rose up around him. Amid shouts of "It's the Phantom of the Opera!" "Catch him!", "Help Carlotta!", and "Find the Phantom" he disappeared.

When the smoke cleared, the crowd gave up pursuit of the Opera Ghost and turned to Carlotta who was clutching her throat and trying desperately to speak. The house physician pushed his way to the front of the throng and picked up a piece of her shattered wine glass. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed it. This revealed nothing, so he dipped his finger in the remaining liquid and touched it gingerly to his tongue. Instantly, it began to sting and burn. He turned to the crowd, which was beginning to press forward dangerously With a dramatic flourish, the wizened man raised his hands for silence. When everyone had quieted sufficiently, he announced, "Carlotta has been poisoned."

Carlotta responded to this by opening her mouth as wide as she could in a silent imitation of a scream, then fainting into the arms of a surprised gentleman dressed as a playing card. In her fainting state she missed the rest of his short speech.

"But she is not fatally poisoned. This wine has been mixed with the flesh and juice of Arisaema triphyllum, Jack in the Pulpit. It is burning my tongue mercilessly as I speak. She will live, though she may wish to seek the privacy of her own apartment for the next few hours, and her voice may not return for many days. Could someone please assist me with carrying the good lady to her room? The rest of you can go on with your party. The diva will be fine with time and care." He scooped the fainting lady up with the assistance of the playing card, and carted her off to her room.

A few of the more skittish people chose to leave the party, but this was the Opera. Dramatic things happened here with great regularity. After a few minutes of excited gossip over the sudden appearance of the Phantom, the music was struck up again, and the dancing resumed. Christine had hung back with Raoul, paralyzed by what she was witnessing. This was what Erik meant when he had said he'd see her at the Masquerade Ball! When she heard the physician pronounce Carlotta's fate, she knew precisely what had occurred. Erik, in trying to respect her wishes that Carlotta not be killed, had merely taken away her voice so that Christine could have her debut.

Christine turned to Raoul and took his hand. He led her out on to the dance floor, oblivious to her sudden change of demeanor. She was glad of her mask. If Raoul saw her shocked expression, he would drag her away from the throng to comfort her, and if she left the party now, she'd be suspect. For the rest of the evening, she danced and laughed, all the while struggling with her embattled emotions. Erik's method was cruel, but not deadly. He was accustomed to playing such tricks on residents of the Opera. TheOpera was accustomed to his tricks as well. He could have done much worse. Carlotta would not ruin another production of _Faust_ and as her understudy, Christine would make her debut after all. If she made her debut, she would have to tell Raoul that she could no longer see him, because of his brother's concern for the family name. By the time midnight struck and all the party-goers pulled off their masks, she was smiling believably.


	43. One Night, Two Men

Raoul escorted Christine to her apartment, glowing with excitement. He had had a wonderful night, and was convinced that Christine had similarly enjoyed herself. After the unpleasant business with La Carlotta and someone pretending to be the Phantom of the Opera, he had worried that Christine would be too upset to continue on at the party. Her resilience pleased him.

"I am so glad you enjoyed yourself tonight, Christine. You really are a charming dancer. There were several moments when I thought I had in hand a real angel!" He stopped at her door and took her hand. "And you were so brave! Whoever that scoundrel was, playing at being the Phantom – I was worried you might faint."

Christine smiled and bit her lip. She was tired, over-excited, and ready to retire to the privacy of her rooms. "I did have a lovely time Raoul. Thank you so much for being my escort. It's a pity about Carlotta, but at least we know she has taken no lasting harm. Besides, how could I be afraid of the Opera Ghost? I was completely safe."

She meant that she was completely safe because her teacher would never hurt her. Raoul, though, knew nothing of this. He thought she referred to his protective presence. Thrilled by the prospect of being this faerie-like girl's protector, he decided to try to extend their evening together.

"Would you care to walk the grounds with me? It would be calming before you sleep."

"Thank you, Raoul, but no. I am exhausted with dancing, and I must begin rehearsals again tomorrow now that Carlotta will be unable to sing. Again, thank you for a wonderful evening, but I really must retire." She gently but firmly retrieved her hand.

Raoul bowed. "Bon soir, then, Mademoiselle. I will call on you next week." His head drooped slightly as he turned and walked away down the hall. Christine watched him go, feeling a mix of relief and sympathy.

She entered her parlor, and went to the mirror. Should she thank Erik, or scold him? While she stood there trying to make up her mind, the glass swung inward and the object of her contemplation was revealed. He was no longer dressed as the Red Death, having changed back into his customary tuxedo shortly after escaping from the crowd.

"You were expecting me, Mlle. Daae?" his tone was self-satisfied, smug.

"An Angel, the Phantom, Erik...Red Death. So many names for a man who has no face…"

The glass swung closed. "It was a marvelous Masquerade, I thought. And I hope you are pleased. I could have given that atrocious wretch hemlock just as easily."

Christine's doubting look brought a smile to Erik's face. It seemed he never smiled except in her presence. No one else in all of Paris would have doubted that the dreaded Phantom would kill the mean-spirited woman; only Christine and Erik.

Since she did not speak, he continued. "Maybe her crimes did not warrant death, but you do have to admit that justice has been dealt. I hope you have been rehearsing faithfully."

"I have. Only now I shall have to inform Raoul deChagny that I can no longer accept his gracious invitations…"

"Never mind the boy. He will have to make do with some other objet d'amour," Erik's pompous demeanor suddenly shifted. This was not a mood with which Christine was familiar. He turned to her with a shy, almost childlike smile. "If you are not too tired, I would like to play something for you. Will you walk with me?"

Erik extended his black-clad arm to her. Christine placed her hand lightly on his arm with only the slightest hesitation. Hadn't she just turned Raoul down for a similar invitation?

On this night, Erik could walk the corridors without fear. Indeed, he walked with the air of a king surveying his domain. He knew that no one would mark his passage, especially with a lady on his arm. Even at this late hour, a masked man dressed as the Phantom of the Opera would not raise a single eyebrow. They stepped into the hallway together. Erik led her through the hallway, nodded pleasantly at the few servants they passed in the halls. The servants bowed perfunctorily before turning back to their work. They had an entire opera house to clean by daybreak.

As the pair passed a cluster of servants attempting to remove bands of crepe from the fifteen foot high walls, Christine turned a worried eye to her escort. She understood his need for secrecyand she knew well that, after tonight's escapades, he would not fare well if caught.

"Erik, they've seen us. What if..."

Lowering his voice so that it carried no further than Christine's ear, Erik whispered, "They will not even remember having seen us tomorrow. After they have finished cleaning they will collect a part of their paycheck: all the remaining alcohol from the party."

Erik led her to the actors' entrance to the theatre, and then up onto the stage where the grand piano waited. He pulled a chair onto the stage and set it several feet behind the piano bench, where he would not be able to see her face as he played.

"If you would have a seat, Mademoiselle. This piece I wish to play for you is a little long for standing." She sat without question. One of the greater joys she had discovered when her Angel finally become flesh was listening to his genius on the grand piano.

He looked back at her, memorizing her expression of eager anticipation. This might be the last time she would sit with him willingly, if she understood this music. Erik swept his cape behind him and sat down as the keyboard. Teeth gritted fiercely, he stared at the keys. He would play for her. If she understood the language of his music then let her judge him as she would. If not, then let this music pass away into darkness; it would make no difference. His fingers caressed the cold smoothness of the keys.


	44. Betrayal

Christine had been studying music for many years under an obsessive teacher. She knew every contemporary composer worth knowing, could recognize most works and their creators by the first three strains of music. But this darkly enchanting piece was by no composer she could recognize, nor was it at all familiar. The style was a complete departure from the musical style currently in vogue. It held a power and an intensity that other composers would shrink from.

It folded around her; she floated in it. It bypassed thought and spoke straight to feeling. She allowed herself to give in to its velvet power, not that it left her any choice. It seemed tailored to speak directly to her. Suddenly, she realized who the composer was, and for whom this piece was written.

She watched Erik play, his powerful frame bending and swaying over the keyboard, his hands appearing to float over the keys without touching them. The music spoke to her more clearly than words. Softly, softly he touched the keys and words came to the listening girl, though there was no vocal accompaniment.

_If I could, I would tell you I love you._ The music picked up more power now; it flowed faster, lighter. _I would lay the stars at your feet. I would shelter you. You would want for nothing, fear nothing. I would give you sunlight and moonlight. We would fly… _Suddenly it was spiraling, becoming heavy, dropping into a minor key, slowing to a dirge._ But there is no hope. No hope. I cannot speak. I cannot tell you. I dare not. _Lightly now, yearningly, sweetly, sadly. _I will speak without words, and pray that you listen._

Christine left her seat. Who was this genius sitting there, speaking to her in a language she understood better than her native tongue? She crossed to him, her heart wild in her chest. He had asked her to sit, but she could not.

When he felt her soft hand on his shoulder he closed his eyes, but did not stop playing. Vision was unnecessary to play this piece. He knew it by heart. Wishfully, in groundless hope, the music rose back to a major key. _Listen to me, understand me, love me, and my joy will encompass worlds. Our joy will be the sun breaking over the horizon. _Crescendo to forte, crashing back to the minor key, subsiding. _But there is no hope. No hope. I cannot speak. I dare not tell you and this secret will die with me. _The final chord rolled over them, and there was silence. He could not turn to look at her.

Only reverence for his music and a desire to hear the rest of the piece kept Christine from taking his hands in her own. Her heart had flown to him before the second movement was over. Then she saw the white of his mask shimmer in the light of the candelabra. How could she love a man whose face she had never seen? When he was an Angel, he had had no face. As her teacher, his face had not mattered, only his knowledge. Now that he had spoken to her as a lover and her heart had leaped to the siren call of his song, she had to know: eccentric nobleman, outlaw, something else?

Hope had sprung up in his heart when she touched him, but now her long silence was unnerving. Erik finally found the strength to turn and look at her. She stood so close that he could feel her body heat and hear the slight rustle of her costume as she breathed. Her hand was still on his shoulder, touching him gently. In that moment, Erik could have quietly died without complaint. It was too sweet to last. Her hand slid off his shoulder and he suddenly felt the shock of cool air on his face and head. His mask was in her hand, his hat on the floor.

Fear crumpled Christine's stomach and shot through her limbs in hot tingles. The mask dropped to the stage floor. She stepped back involuntarily, her body moving without the assistance of her brain. She hitched in a breath…

"Go on Christine, scream." His already inhuman face contorted with rage and despair; she had betrayed him. He had played his heart to her, and she repaid him by exposing him. He roughly grabbed her arms and pulled her close. "Look at it! You paid for your ticket, now see the show! A face not even a mother could love; what did I expect of a chorus girl?"

Contemptuously, he threw her from him. She landed awkwardly on the unforgiving surface of the stage. His voice broke off and he turned from the horrified face of the woman he loved.

"No compassion, no mercy. Is your damnable curiosity satisfied?" His lament echoed around the theatre and then he was gone into the shadows.

Christine stayed where she sprawled for several long minutes. The image of his warped, twisted, mottled face was etched behind her eyelids. She couldn't shut it out. _No nose, _her mind babbled at her, _he had no nose! And his face…what demon created that face? _But as she collected herself and got to her feet, she pictured that hideous face again and saw something aside from the deformity. She remembered his broken expression as he turned from her. His words rang in her mind. "_What did I expect of a chorus girl? No compassion…"_

"Erik," she whispered. "Angel. I'm sorry." She picked up his hat and turned it over in her hands. The mark inside labeled it as La Propriete de l'Opera Populaire. 

Christine looked around the abandoned stage. She saw the candles melting onto the mat he had carefully set beneath the candelabra to protect the ebony finish of the piano. She looked long at the piano. Under Erik's touch it became a living thing, capable of speech. How it had spoken to her tonight...but she coudl not admit such thoughts, not yet. Last, she looked off into the darkness of the wings. He was gone where she could not follow.

She blew out all but one of the candles and lifted the ornate candelabra down. When she picked the heavy thing up to carry it offstage, she saw a scarlet rose, tied with black velvet, lying behind it. Its thorns were removed. _He planned this, _she thought, the first inkling of regret making its appearance through her numbness. _He tried to make everything beautiful. For me. He always has…_

The halls outside the theatre were completely silent. It was the first hour of dawn, and no one was stirring. Denizens of the Opera house were locked up in their rooms, sleeping off the effects of too much dancing, too much eating, and -most of all- too much drinking. Christine walked the silent halls, the rose tucked in her hair, carrying the derby he had left behind, Erik's mournful voice echoing in her ears with each step. "_No compassion." "No mercy."_

By the time she reached her apartments, her eyes were filled with tears. She brushed them away, and scolded herself.

"What right have _you_ to cry? Ridiculous girl! Go to your room and get some sleep. You must be on time for rehearsal tomorrow, if your performance is to be perfect."

Sleep was long in coming. His face haunted her dreams when she drifted and her imagination when she woke. Over and over, she watched him turn from her and walk away. For the first hour, she was as disturbed by the expression of abject betrayal on his face as by the horrific aspect of his disfigurement. After that hour, she barely noticed his ugliness. All she saw was his sorrow, and it broke her heart. When sleep finally came, it was to the memory of the sonata he played only for her.

The mirror mocked Christine that night and for every night of the torturous week leading up to her debut. For an hour each evening, she stood before it, calling softly for her Angel or searching futilely for the mechanism that would open the glass and admit her to Erik's world. It occurred to her that after her betrayal, he might no longer want to see her. Her face might be anathema to him. If so, he would have to tell her himself.


	45. Margeurite Triumphant

Erik heard Christine's call no more than he had heard her whispered apology. Desperate to overwhelm the pain of his protégé's betrayal, he had confined himself in his personal torture chamber; the same room he had built to do penance for Thomas' murder. It consisted of nothing but highly polished reflective surfaces; floor, ceiling, and walls were made of mirrors and broken pieces of mirrors he had scavenged or stolen. He rarely used this room; when he did, he felt madness reaching for him.

Now he entered it, not for penance, but to remind himself of truth. Without mask, cape, or hat, every detail that confined him to a solitary life underground was reflected back at him a thousand times in the lanterns' light. Looking into the ruin that nature had given him in place of a face, he thought of Christine's horror. Her reaction had been no more extreme than his own the first time he saw himself in the black, glassy waters of the lake.

When he felt her hand on his shoulder, he was stupid enough to believe that she had heard his meaning and accepted him. He thought he had moved her with his pathetic offering. Instead, she had merely been poised to betray him. His reasoning broke off there. Hadn't he thought to let her judge him as she would? Could he, in all fairness, be angry at her for what she did? _She judged me. She exposed me for the monster I am. _Hadn't his actions then proven him to be nothing more? What would he have done to any other man who laid rough hands on Nils Daae's daughter?

"I would kill him," he snarled to the hundreds of reflections. "They would never find the pieces."

It was an animalistic sound, the words forcing themselves through his gnashing teeth. The implications of that statement chilled Erik. Should he then kill himself? But Christine abhorred killing. Even when the screech-owl tried to steal her debut as Margeurite, Christine had asked Erik to spare the wretched woman. He had accused her of being without compassion or mercy, but she had shown both to her only enemy. If she rejected him, it was clearly not because she lacked the capacity for tender feeling; it was because she had judged him for the monster he was.

He sat on the cold, polished floor and pressed his face to his knees. It would have been better if he had never heard her sing. Then her voice might have perished with her father. After a few years with the Opera Populaire's voice coaches, and a few years wildness with the ballet corps girls, she would not have been any more prodigious than Carlotta. Instead, under his tutelage and guidance, she had become sublime. She would take Paris by... His head snapped up and his eyes opened wide. In only four days, she would make her debut. All of Paris would be forced to recognize her genius.

And she would have to do it alone.

He could not return to her, not now that she'd seen his face. He imagined her running back to her room, feeling fortunate to have escaped the nightmare behind her. She would probably tell Meg Giry and Mme Giry about the terrible truth of her "Angel." He hoped she would not tell the boy - that would be humiliation beyond bearing.

No, he could not return to her, but he could watch her triumph. Box 5 would be held for him, as always. He would not miss her debut.

One hour before the production went up, Christine paced before the mirror. Two days before, she'd finally given up trying to find the lever. She no longer called for her Angel; he had abandoned her – and rightly so. Now, the mirror acted as her teacher. She corrected her posture, practiced her expressions, and tested her gestures. She needed to be in the dressing room, getting made up and dressed for the role but she was too nervous to walk down the hall alone.

It was not performing that frightened her, nor the prospect of taking the lead role. It was that Erik would be listening. He might not show himself, but she was quite sure that he would not allow himself to miss the culmination of eight years of work. He might hate her for what she had done to him, but he would come to see his student perform. She was counting on that. It was her only chance to apologize. If she could not make him understand, he would be lost to her forever.

A knock at the door broke her reverie. Meg's concerned voice floated into the room. "Christine? Christine! The director's panicking looking for you. You better get to the dressing room."

"Wait, Meg." She ran and opened the door. "Will you walk with me?"

"Of course I will. Hurry though; I have to get my dancers in line!"

As they hurried down the back corridors, Meg started to giggle, "Look at us, Christine. You are the diva, and I'm the lead dancer…but we haven't learned to walk down the hall like proper ladies yet."

"Shhhhh, Meg! If we make too much noise, your mother will skin us!"

Meg deposited Christine into the anxious hands of M. Reyeurre who began to scold and cosset her by turns. Christine was such a joy to work with, especially after La Carlotta. He hated to speak harshly to her, but 45 minutes before curtain was cutting her arrival far too close. "Christine, Christine. How could you worry me so? Get in there! Madame Lirel still has to do your makeup, and Madame Courvier has to get you into the costume for the first act. Are you all right? You look so pale! You aren't sick, now are you? Have you warmed up? Are you nervous? Do you have your dedication? We haven't had a new diva in so long, I hope the orchestra remembers to wait. "

Christine nodded and shook her head in turn as the wiry little man hurried her to the make up table. She barely heard his questions. In her mind, she was becoming Margeurite, spinning at her wheel. _Poor innocent maiden_, she thought, _destroyed for the sake of a demon's amusement. _She only emerged from her meditation when Mme Lirel tried to take the dried rose from her hair.

"It's a good luck charm, if you please, Madame." All divas had their peculiarities. If this one only wanted a dead flower in her coiffure, Mme Lirel would consider herself very lucky.

Christine stood just offstage, watching the set crew rush to place the last items neatly in their places. She heard the crowd taking their seats, coughing and rustling their programs. It sounded like a sold out house. She imagined someone in every seat but the legendary Box five. _He_ would be there, listening. And he had promised her,_ "After your triumphant debut, I will take you to see my home." _He had never broken a promise before, and she intended to remind him of that. She had to see him, even if he was furious with her. She had to see him one last time, so that she could tell him…

"Miss Daae! Your cue!"

She walked gracefully downstage, and stared into the audience. This being her first debut, Christine was allowed to dedicate her performance to one person. The audience knew the sad story of Miss Daae, whose father had died, leaving her an orphan in the opera house, and who had become the youngest person ever to land a lead role. She was even dating the younger brother of Phillippe deChagny! They expected her to dedicate her performance to her father, or to Raoul, or to the managers who had kindly let her live in the opera until she could earn her keep. Instead, they heard,

"Without this person, I would never be standing before you now. I have been immeasurably fortunate to know him. He gave my voice wings and taught it to fly. I dedicate this performance … all my performances … to Erik. Thank you." She left the stage as though she had said nothing unusual.

Murmurs ran through the crowd like the sound of leaves in an autumn wind. Who was this Erik? Why had she given him no last name? They had never heard of an Erik before. Maybe she was referring to the younger deChagny by a pet name. It hardly seemed likely. This would be gossip for weeks to come.

Only three people knew precisely to whom Christine had dedicated her performance. Two of them flinched in horror. Dedicating one's performance to a Ghost could hardly be good luck! The other was on his knees in the apparently empty Box five, unable to draw breath. Christine had made her dedication to him. To him! His rose, the one he had never gotten to give her, was in her hair. The message could not have been clearer if she had spoken it plainly.

She did not despise him, still wanted him as her teacher, even though she had seen … him. For days he believed that the voice he heard faintly calling him was just another of the voices from his past tormenting his solitude. Now he knew that she had been calling him. But…how could it be? The curtains opened for the first act, and he saw Christine in the 'window' of the set at Margeurite's spinning wheel. It was a dream made real. He watched with delight as her voice filled the theatre and the audience, to a person, fell under her spell of starlight and silver.

Christine's performance would cause more talk than her mysterious dedication. Not in living memory had a voice like hers been heard. The audience smiled and wept at her whim. She gave them the spirit of Margeurite. When her bow came, every person in the audience rose to his or her feet, applauding wildly. A veritable flood of flowers landed at her feet. She heard them calling to her, "La Daae, bravissima!" "Exquisite!" "Bravissima!" They were hers. Long ago, her father had told her that she would be a great lady of the stage. Erik had promised her the same thing. Their sweetest dreams were coming true. She exited stage left long before their cheers died away.


	46. Seeing the Lady Home

She stepped into the dressing room and leaned against the door, smiling to herself and humming the Jewel Song. Her singing stopped abruptly when she saw the still body of Mme Courvier slumped in a chair. She went to check on the limp woman, when a dark form emerged from the costume closet. She hitched in a breath to scream, but the shadowy man placed a gentle hand over her mouth and whispered, "Ether, Christine. What kind of monster do you think I am?"

Slowly, testing her intent to scream, he lowered his hand from her mouth. He touched something in the closet, and she heard a panel slide open. How many secret passages did this theatre hold, she wondered. He ducked into the passageway, beckoning to her. Christine followed him, realizing he was following through with his promise. Once she was in, he lit a candle, revealing a passageway only wide enough for one person. "Stay close to me. There will be dangerous places, and I wouldn't dream of seeing you hurt."

Erik was following through on his promise. After her triumphant debut, he was taking her to see his home.

The passageways seemed to wind on forever. Now and then they would emerge into some back hallway, descend a few stairs, and enter another passageway. Eventually they wound up on the basement stairs, descending quickly. He would stop occasionally to move a wire, or touch a lever or button. "Alarm," he would quietly inform her. Or, more often, "Trap." She realized that anyone attempting to enter his demesnes uninvited would likely wind up badly injured – or dead.

If the traps and alarms impressed her, the labyrinth of brick and stone walls amazed her. How long had he been down here? Listening to his voice made her believe he was in his twenties, but the elaborate decoration and the excellence of the masonry suggested something else. "How old are…"

"Shhh," he interrupted. Just look."

She looked. They emerged from the tangle of walls into the softly lit, cavernous underpinnings of the Opera Populaire. She gazed around in silent wonder. Lanterns hung everywhere, casting soft light at odd angles through hanging fabrics of myriad colors, giving the huge space a dreamlike atmosphere. Christine could see the Erik's complex of buildings rising like a desert island in the middle of the lake. Erik led her to the stone edge of the dock. He retrieved a pole from an archway and used it to pull a small boat from behind a niche in the stone.

"Would you like to go there?" Erik barely dared to hope. That her slippered foot would soon sanctify the threshold of his sanctuary seemed beyond imagination.

"Oh, could I?" she spun to face him. "Please?"

"I am at your service. This is the ferry to my home." he offered her his hand, expecting hesitation, but there was none.

She accepted his assistance into the rocking boat, and sat down, holding on to the sides. A push of the pole sent them floating across the expanse of water. After carefully tethering the boat to his dock, he helped her step onto the ancient foundation stones. He said nothing, allowing her to look around, slowly taking in the masterpiece that was his home.

"Did you build all this yourself?" she asked.

"Yes. I doubt anyone else even knows there is a level below the basements. Which is a good thing for me." He paused to reflect. "And for them."

"It's amazing. So you live there," she pointed at the little house, "but what is that?" She indicated the strange walls of the mirror-room.

"That is something I'd rather not talk about. And this time, please respect my wishes."

Christine blushed and dropped her head. They would have to talk about what she had done, but not now, not yet. The sight of the house reminded her that she still wore layer upon layer of heavy theatre make-up. _I must look clownish, standing here with this paint all over me._ "Is there a place where I can wash my face?"

"Of course. Wait here, and I will bring what you need." Erik disappeared into the cottage, reappearing shortly with a soft cloth and soap. The soap came from the supply closets of the servants' quarters; it was course and harsh – perfect for make-up removal. Christine went about the difficult job of scraping off the layers of stage makeup that made her face visible during the opera, but looked garish from close up. She rinsed and folded the cloth, returning it to him as unstained as possible.

Erik watched her ablutions in a bubble of unreality. She was really here, now, with him. Dreams rarely scrubbed their faces pink with lye soap. He almost laughed with pleasure when she handed him the cloth. He now possessed something she had touched.

"If you have done with washing, there is something I've been excited to show you. I think you'll be pleased." He led her to his music room and opened the door with a flourish.

"A pipe organ? How did you get a pipe organ down here?"

"Piece by piece," he couldn't keep the pride from his voice. "And it took years to figure out how to build it, never mind learning to play."

"You _built_ this? That's…would you play it for me?"

"Sit down over there," he gestured to the chair on the other side of the oak desk. "And please stay there, this time."

"Angel…"

He cut her off curtly. "I am no Angel."

With practiced ease, Erik stoked the steam-engine bellows. He sat down to his beloved organ, his foot to the pedal, his long fingers on the keys. For his beloved audience of one, he played the music he had written in his years of solitude. If he had made the piano speak, the pipe organ seemed to simply be a piece of him. Christine found herself flowing into the music again. It played her emotions, swinging her from childlike glee to the deepest depression. She lost track of time and place. Against his directive, she stood, but only so she could breathe more deeply. As it always had, his music called to her. It drew song from her like water from a well. Her voice joined the organ's rich tones in a wordless harmony. When the last notes faded away, Christine walked to where Erik sat; enchanted with the way her voice complimented and completed his music.

Feeling bold, she dared to touch his hand. He stared at her small hand on his for a few minutes unable to decide whether to leave it there or pull away.

"For the other night…" she began.

"Christine, do not..." Erik didn't want to talk about it. He wanted to pretend nothing had happened. He wanted to feel her fingers entwined with his and pretend that he was like any other man sitting with his ladylove. But she _would_ continue.

"For the other night, I am sorry. I only wanted to see the face of the man who spoke love to me with the piano; the man who was making me..." now she could not finish. He would not believe her, anyway - she would have to show him. "Erik, I would like to do something, and I would ask you, as a lady to a gentleman, to trust me."

He gaped at her. Trust her? After what she had done, she was lucky he hadn't… But no, her eyes were beseeching, her scent intoxicating. Whatever she asked, he would do. "Do what you will, Christine. I no longer have any power over you."

Christine uttered a short laugh. "How little you know."


	47. Touch

They sat in silence, each nervous and unsure, neither knowing what to say or do. Christine wrestled with her plan, not knowing if she could follow through. Finally, she found the will to speak.

"You said I may do what I will. Did you mean with impunity?"

"Christine, you are being most mysterious." He sighed. What game was she trying to play with him? "Certainly. Whatever you want to do. With impunity."

Her little hand rose towards his face, slowly this time. Erik watched her warily, wanting nothing more than to push her from the bench, but forced himself to sit still. He had promised, "whatever you want…with impunity." If that meant she tortured both of them, which appeared to be her intention, then so be it.

For her part, Christine was struggling with her memory of his face. It had frightened her terribly only one week before, and she knew that if she showed the least fear or disgust it would ruin her chance to earn his trust. She touched the white plaster gingerly, and then traced the edge around to its ties. She brought the image of what lay beneath up in her mind, but held his eyes with hers, wanting to focus on their singular beauty. Slowly, she untied the knot and began to lower the mask.

His hands stopped her. He gently arrested her movement, trying to give her a chance to reverse her insane decision. "Christine, there is no need to frighten yourself – or do you not remember…"

"I remember well enough; I remember a silly little girl jumping at vapors. Leave me be." It was the first time she had dared give him a command. It stunned him into submission. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see her face wrinkle in disgust or blanch in fear.

"Please, Angel, look at me." Christine knew that if he did not watch, he would not believe.

Why wouldn't she simply do it and have it over with? Erik opened his unwilling eyes, and looked into hers, resigned to watching again as she was repulsed by him. The torments of his life never ceased to nettle him. He masqueraded for years as the Angel of Music while living in a private Hell. Now, his Hell continued to haunt him.

The mask was off. Christine set it gently on the edge of the oak table. She studied his face, forcing herself to be comfortable with what she saw. She cringed inwardly, imagining the life thrust on him by a simple mischance of birth. It was no wonder that he had made his home deep beneath the ground; no society would ever accept him no matter how beautiful his music or how keen his mind. All because his face was not beautiful to look upon. They would never know Erik.

She realized her luck; of all people in all the theatre, he had chosen her as his protégé. She had the privilege of knowing him. Now, if she did not destroy the tender feelings he had towards her, she would have the privilege of befriending him, being trusted by him. She could make music with him. Her hand rose towards his face, making Erik flinch. When he flinched, sadness creased her delicate brow. Did he think she would hurt him? She laid her hand on his cheek, heedless of the rough, twisted feel of his flesh.

Erik struggled to read her changing expressions. At first it was easy. As she lowered the mask, he could see her steeling herself to look at the horror beneath. Once she set his mask aside, however, none of the revulsion he expected to see appeared in her face. There was a look of deep concentration, as though she were memorizing his features, followed by a softening that spoke of affection and sadness. _Impossible. Wake up, Erik. This is the strangest dream you've ever..._ Then her hand was coming at his face. He flinched, not consciously believing she would hurt him, but unable to help it.

The same lack of feeling that prevented his mother's slap and Herroux' punishments from stinging also kept him from feeling the warmth of her touch. For that, more than anything else, he cursed his face. She was the picture of innocence and beauty; he could not tear his eyes away. On impulse, Erik dared to let himself place his hand over hers.

In the sweet dreams he allowed himself as he wrote his music he never imagined this; that she would touch him, and let him touch her, of her own free will. Now he could dream without guilt. Still, he could not accept that his fate should change so suddenly from despised to beloved. It was too much of a leap. He had to give her a chance to take it all back before he believed.

His voice was hoarse and strained, so different from his usual dulcet tones, that he startled himself. "Christine, you don't have to…I don't see how you can even bear to…"

"Is this all, Erik? Is this what we were both so frightened of?" She lightly touched his lips with her fingertips before lowering her hands. Her earnest eyes searched his; he felt that more than his mask was removed.

"It is not enough?" bitterly.

"When I look at you, I hear your music. Your face is…" she winced at the word she must use, but flattering lies would only destroy what she had built, "terrible. But it is only one note on the keyboard. How many times have great composers…how many times have _you_ used dissonance to perfect a piece?" As she spoke the words they became true. The distortion had become just a part of him, a part she could accept.

Erik heard truth in her voice and saw compassion in her eyes. He felt himself shaking his head in denial, even as his spirit soared. It was too much to take in. He had spent his entire life convincing himself that he would always be a thing apart from the rest of humanity, that he was a horrific monster. Now, this girl…

He took both her hands and kissed her palms reverently, his tears dropping on her wrists. He was aware that she knew he was weeping; it hardly seemed to matter. Having seen his face, all else diminished. He wept as he had in childhood: silently, without moving, only tears streaming from his eyes.

"Erik?" Christine watched his tears fall. She had never imagined her Angel of Music capable of tears. She did not understand why he should cry now. "Erik, why are you crying? I haven't hurt you, have I?"

Erik released her hands, drew his handkerchief and wiped his eyes and her wrists. Keeping his head bowed to spare her his face, he reached for his mask and replaced it before looking up.

"To the contrary. Quite to the contrary." Control was returned; once again the iron will dominated. "I apologize for my maudlin display. It is getting late. Everyone will wonder where you have disappeared to. Mme. Courvier will have waked by now. I can imagine that she has told everyone her story. She's a reliable woman and an excellent wardrobe mistress, but she does run off at the mouth. They may believe you to be kidnapped. We really should return you to your rooms." He stood and gestured towards the dock.

Christine felt her head spinning. A few seconds ago, he was crying into her hands, and now he was essentially ordering her to leave. She stayed where she was. "If I'm kidnapped, why can't I stay here awhile?"

"You will reappear as mysteriously as you disappeared. After your performance, you were overwhelmed, and went for a walk about town."

"Angel, I don't want to leave you…"

"And if you stay, they will tear every stone from the foundation trying to find you. You are the diva now, the Prima Donna. You are as precious as gold to them, you see. And when they exhausted every likely place, they would search the basements. And what would they find?"

There was no chance they would search the lowest basement without finding passages to the foundations. On their way down, his alarms and traps would be sprung. They would know someone was responsible for setting the traps. She finally gave up and plodded reluctantly to the dock.

He helped her into the boat, and pushed the craft across the black waters in silence. Christine watched the retreating shore with a wistful regret. Being in this place was like walking through a beautiful, dark dream. The tastefully extravagant decorations of the Opera house seemed gaudy in comparison. She watched Erik studiously ignoring her as he deftly steered the boat. His music was here. _He_ was here. All the Opera Populaire could offer her was fame and fortune.

Erik tried not to think as he worked. She wanted to stay with him. She had said _exactly_ that. Erik pondered why she would want to spend her night of triumph in a dark hole with a monster. Clearly, her eyes and mind were dazed with the brilliance of her first performance. She was not seeing or thinking clearly. That explained everything. Later she would remember touching his face and be repulsed. He imagined her frantically washing her hands. He imagined a note politely requesting that their lessons be cancelled. By the time the boat bumped the opposite shore, he was reluctant to offer her his hand.

They walked quickly through the passageways. Erik guided her carefully past dangerous areas, but did not presume to touch her again. She tried to engage him in conversation, but his answers were so short that she soon fell silent. When he let her into the small chamber behind her mirror, she stopped him with a light touch.

"I'd like to see my parlor as you see it. Wait." She looked out into her home. The gas lights on the walls lit the rooms in a gentle yellow light. She could see her parlor, part of her kitchen, and the vestibule. It looked so small and drab compared to the wonderland Erik inhabited that she felt a bit ashamed, not knowing that on countless evenings he stood here and longed to sit in the cozy warmth of her parlor.

Erik found himself falling into a daydream. The faint light filtering in through the glass illuminated Christine's silhouette. Golden curls cascaded over her shoulders, highlighting the delicate curve of shoulder and neck. He caught his hand before it caressed her.

"We cannot stand in this little closet all evening," he growled. He reached past her and opened the glass. "Go."

Christine stepped half way out of the chamber, but spun back to catch the rapidly disappearing Erik by his sleeve. "When is my next lesson?"

Her Angel sighed. "Christine, you have excellent command over the most sublime instrument I have ever heard. I've taught you everything I know. You must suffer my presence no longer."

Her blank stare irritated him. He was handing Christine her opportunity to get rid of him, to free herself, without taking the initiative. She was not a stupid girl. Why did she not take advantage of his offer?

"Suffer? Absurd." Ignoring his comments about whether she needed him, Christine decided to throw convention to the four winds, and invite Erik to tea. He would never ask her; she would have to ask him. "Please join me for tea tomorrow. At four. Here."

For a moment, it seemed he would decline the invitation. He considered it. Never in his life had he been invited to take tea with anyone. But here was his beloved, inviting him to take tea with her like a regular person.

"Thank you, Mademoiselle. I shall attend." Feeling as absurd as she labeled him, he bowed and left.

Christine sighed with exasperation and stepped into her parlor. The glass clicked shut behind her. She went to her bedroom and changed into a comfortable evening shift. As she was heading to her kitchen for tea, she was startled by the sound of a key rattling in her door.


	48. Who Is This Erik

The entire Opera House was frantically searching for its lost Prima Donna, who had been missing for several hours. Mme Courvier had indeed staggered to the managers as fast as she could after the ether wore off. Though Mme Giry would normally have been the first to receive such news, she and Meg were actually the last. The news of Mme Courvier's attack, and Christine's disappearance did not reach them until the managers came in search of them. Immediately after _Faust_ ended, Raoul cornered both women and begged them to talk with him "in private." His eyes were anxious and his expression was one of irritable excitement. The dedication had clearly unnerved him.

Being females, both Giry ladies were partial to the younger DeChagny. Though the original intention was to go congratulate Christine, Raoul's anxious plea and handsome face distracted them_. After all_, thought Meg, _I see Christine every day, and she will be surrounded by admirers right now. She probably wouldn't even be able to see me over the throng_. She grinned at her mother behind Raoul's back. They retired to one of the small practice rooms with him, where he proceeded to make small talk.

"The weather really has been unseasonably warm, don't you think?" he asked, looking intently at the small spinet piano and tapping his fingers on the sound proofing panel.

"What are you so nervous about, child?" Mme Giry.

"Hmmm? Me? I'm not nervous. It's just unseasonably warm." He stopped his tapping, only to begin fingering his pocket watch. "Wasn't Christine an absolute angel tonight? I don't think the anyone in the audience breathed the whole time she sang. Marvelous. She was absolutely marvelous."

Meg looked at her mother, one eyebrow raised. Mme Giry shrugged in response, but kept the movement small.

"Yes, she was. Christine has the most beautiful voice I've ever heard in all my years at this opera house." Mme Giry said, hoping the boy would eventually come around to his point.

"She must practice all the time. She must be very _dedicated_. To her music, you know. She must be entirely dedicated to her music."

Meg smiled proudly. "Christine is very talented, Monsieur. She is dedicated to her music, but there are many other things she likes to do."

"Like what?"

"Oh, she studies. And she likes to walk about the grounds. She enjoys visiting with her friends. And…and…" For the life of her, Meg couldn't think of "many" things Christine really liked to do aside from sing and study.

Raoul fervently hoped that he was among the "friends" Meg referred to. "Does she like to cook? To go shopping?"

It was Mme Giry's turn to step in. It was nice that Meg was trying to present her friend in the best possible light, but there were some truths a man should know about the woman he was courting. "No, Monsieur. She does not like to cook or shop. She knows very little about the niceties of domestic life, having lived her life in the gracious halls of your Opera Populaire. I believe the dear child barely remembers her own mother."

Raoul considered this for a moment. As the wife of a DeChagny, Christine would never have to cook, but how could a woman not be interested in shopping? "Well, that's certainly unusual."

The three stared at one another; two waiting for the one to finally get around to asking whatever it was he dragged them into the cramped practice room about. Meg was brave enough to tap her foot. Raoul cleared his throat and tried to approach the subject delicately.

"It was also very unusual that she did not dedicate her performance to her dear father, was it not?" Raoul desperately tried to sound nonchalant, but failed. The Giry ladies' eyebrows rose. Mme Giry began to think about the mounds of work waiting for her.

"What is it you want to know, Monsieur DeChagny? I'm sure your brother would prefer that I be out taking care of my duties than standing in a small room making tea-room talk."

"Who is this 'Erik'?" he blurted. His unspoken questions hung in the air. Did Christine love another man? Had she played him false?

So that was it. The young man was trying to decide whether he should be jealous or hurt. Mme Giry patted his arm.

"We believe that it is her music teacher. If it is, you have nothing to worry about. Many divas dedicate their performances to their voice coaches, their conductors…I even heard one young woman dedicate her performance to Mozart. Can you imagine?" She kept her voice light and unconcerned.

"Have you ever seen him? Is he young? Is he handsome?" he looked imploringly at Meg, whose face was coloring deeper and deeper reds as he spoke.

"No…no one has! She says not even she has…" but Meg bit her lip and looked to the fireplace. Mme Giry knew her daughter was lying. Had Christine seen the Opera Ghost?

"She says it, but you don't believe her? How can one take lessons from an invisible teacher? I saw that look, Mademoiselle. Is she having…a secret affair…with him?"

The idea horrified both women. The Opera Ghost was no one a young lady would have an affair with! Raoul took their expressions to mean he had gone too far. It was not, after all, very polite to insinuate that a young woman might be trysting with men. If he angered these two, he would lose his only source of reliable information. He clumsily struggled to salvage his mistake.

"I...I don't mean to say that she ever would, of course. Christine is such a good girl…always proper. It's…it's only that…that….I love her! I love her, and love does strange things to a man's mind. Women have such delicate sensibilities, and wouldn't understand, of course…but I'm simply mad about her. So, please, ladies…if she has fallen for another, do not let my poor heart be the victim…"

The Giry ladies looked at one another. The young man really did seem to be a little hors d'esprit. He had been courting Christine for nearly four months now, which was reportedly the longest he had ever shown interest in anything, woman or hobby. Meg took pity on him.

"No, monsieur. I can truthfully say that Christine is not having an affair with anyone. She has told me of her teacher. He is an exacting, harsh man who has driven her relentlessly for years. I have no doubt that she dedicated her performance to him to appease him."

Raoul sat back and breathed deeply, satisfied that hi_s_ Christine was not making a fool of him. He was determined to find out more about this music teacher, though. Who was he, and why did he think he had the right to drive a defenseless young woman so hard? Christine would thank him for delivering her from the man. He would be her hero! She would marry him, and he would carry her off to her happily ever after in his luxurious mansion.

As he mused over these pleasant fantasies, an urgent knock shook the door. "Mme Giry? Mme Giry! Are you in there? Do open the door, Madame! There is an emergency!"

Recognizing the nasal voice of M. Debienne, Mme Giry was across the room before he could finish his appeal. He was preparing to knock again when she opened the door. He thrust his reddened face into the room, peering around. "She _not_ with you! Oh dear, oh dear. We all thought she'd be with you, wherever you were. And she's not…."

"Who isn't with us, Monsieur?" queried Mme Giry.

"Christine." Raoul and Meg snapped their heads up, suddenly interested. "No one has seen hide nor hair of the girl since she left the stage. Mme Courvier was attacked…"

"Attacked!" all three spoke at once.

"Yes! Yes! Someone chloroformed her in Christine's dressing room…"

Raoul had the man by his lapels. "Tear this place apart! I want her found. Now! Did Courvier see anyone?" he rushed from the room, followed by M. Debienne, who attempted to smooth his ruffled evening attire as he ran.

The Girys stayed behind, staring nervously at each other. When the two men were out of earshot, they both began speaking at once.

"Mother, there is a secret I have been keeping…" began Meg, just as her mother said, "I must tell you about Christine's Angel…"

Being the elder, Mme Giry cleared her throat. "Christine's Angel is none other than the…"

"Phantom of the Opera! I know, maman! She has met him, in the flesh. She says he's a real man, and no Ghost." Meg spilled everything she knew. Her adored maman could be trusted; she forgot why she hadn't told her mother these things before.

"She has met him? And says he's a man. How shocking!" Mme Giry had believed in the Opera Ghost's supernatural nature for years. It was as much a part of her personal mythology as the saints and the Mother Mary. Now that his reality was confirmed by a sighting, his existence seemed more menacing. "Whether he's a man or a ghost, he is dangerous. He killed Thomas. He poisoned La Carlotta. I'm not saying I wouldn't have done it myself, were I that clever. But the truth is that he is a dangerous man, capable of dangerous things, and…"

"Before we do anything else, we should at least check her room. You have the only other key, maman. No one has actually gone into her room. What if she is sitting there in her father's chair, in one of her daydreams, staring at her father's violin? She does that, you know, and when she gets that way it is almost impossible to rouse her. They might have knocked, and she might have ignored them." Meg sincerely hoped this was the case. If the Phantom of the Opera had her friend, it was likely a lost cause.

Mother and daughter walked down the halls, arm-in-arm for support. When they came to the door, Mme Giry pulled her enormous key-ring from her belt and unlocked the door. Hopefully, the two women peeked into the apartment.


	49. She Belongs to the Stage

Christine stood not five steps from the door, a scandalized look on her face. "Mme Giry? Meg? I might not have been decent. Why didn't you simply knock?"

"The entire Opera is looking for you, Christine. They have been for two hours, apparently." Mme Giry's voice was both relieved and chiding. "Where have you been?"

"I went for a walk. I was so overwhelmed after singing…I needed air. Then I came back here through the servants' entrance to avoid the patrons, and washed my face and changed clothes. You are fortunate that you came in _after_ I changed." Christine tried to look annoyed. She was genuinely touched by their concern for her safety, but if they opened the door uninvited when Erik was visiting, it would turn into a mess she did not want to clean up.

"You should have let someone know, dear! It is not customary for divas to disappear after performances. Come, come. Get dressed, and we'll take you to them so they can stop their search, and congratulate you on your superb performance. Raoul said you sang like an angel."

"Oh, he _did_ Christine. He came to me and Maman just to tell us that!" Meg beamed at her friend.

"Did he?" Christine asked. There was a peculiarly flat tone to her voice. "That was very sweet of him."

As they spoke, Mme Giry was dragging Christine up one corridor and down another, looking for the managers and Raoul. They met many people searching the halls, who wanted to stop and find out where the girl had reappeared from. Meg shooed them away, occasionally getting directions from someone who had spotted the central search party. They found them in the kitchens, beginning a search of the pantries.

"Messieurs? She is here. We have Christine." Meg called.

The three men turned and rushed to the ladies' side. Raoul took Christine's hands in his and kissed them. She smiled at him, but to the sensitive eyes of her childhood friend, it looked forced. In her mind Christine was thinking of Erik's kisses. Compared to those burning testaments, Raoul's seemed fabricated, like little shows put on for her benefit. He began to admonish her, as though she were a young girl.

"Christine, where have you been? We were so worried! We looked everywhere for you. We were about to head into the basements." He took her alarmed look to be worry over his displeasure. "I'm not angry with you. It's only that I was concerned for your well-being."

"I'm fine Raoul. I was overwhelmed from the crowds and the singing. I took a walk." She looked over to the very relieved managers. "I do apologize, Messieurs. I did not know that it was customary for the lead roles to meet with admirers after the production. I will try always to be present in the future. And believe me, if I ever go missing, the dark, musty old basements will be the last place you will find me." She retrieved her hands from Raoul, using the pretense of arranging her hair.

The managers thanked Raoul for assisting in the search and Mme Giry for returning Christine to them. After a few tired-looking bows, they shuffled off to find and disband the other search parties. Mme Giry looked at Raoul pointedly.

"Pardon us, Monsieur, but these young ladies need their rest. They must be at their most beautiful to perform tomorrow evening. I trust we will see you in the boxes then?"

Raoul was staring at Christine, who was blushing and looking away. _How sweet_, he thought, _she's shy. _When Mme Giry began to draw the young women away down the hall, he finally took the point. "Goodnight, ladies. Christine, you were absolutely divine tonight, darling. I do hope your teacher appreciates that you dedicated all your performances to him. He must be an extraordinary man. I look forward to meeting him. Again, goodnight," and he left.

Christine heaved a sigh of relief, then looked at Mme Giry and Meg, who were staring at her with curious eyes. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked.

"Christine…If I weren't sure that I'm awake, I would say that you are relieved Raoul has gone..." Meg's eyebrow was arched so high it almost disappeared under her fringe of straight brown hair.

Mme Giry also looked mildly surprised, though she had more insight into Christine's heart, having lived longer and seen so many promising young women disappear from the stage into the waiting kitchens of handsome husbands. She kept the girls moving in the general direction of their rooms as Christine tried to explain her feelings to Meg.

"It's just what you said the other day, Meg. Did you hear how he spoke to me tonight? I might as well have been his daughter! He's courting me seriously now, I suppose, and he probably has the _most_ honorable of intentions. He'd marry me, carry me off to his estate, and I'd never set foot on the stage again. It wouldn't be _proper." _Her voice began a steady rise. _ "_Well, I don't want to be proper as much as I want…as I want the…the music. And everyone will laugh behind their hands at me. And I don't care, Meg, I really don't. As long as they let me sing!" She rubbed her eyes with one tired hand. "I know this is scandalous. It's not the way a woman should feel. But it's the way _I_ feel. Goodnight, ladies," and she flung herself through her door, closing it gently behind her.

Meg looked to her mother, bewildered. Mme Giry smiled sadly at her pretty daughter, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "I've seen this happen before; a young woman choosing between the stage and the home. I believe Christine has made her choice, and there's nothing either of us can do about it. Not that I'd want to. I think she belongs to the stage. Don't you, ma chere?"

Raoul sat in his fine carriage, studying his gloves as it bounced down the rough streets. For the first time in his life, he found himself truly and deeply interested in another person. Christine baffled him and drew him in with her peculiarities. She was not at all interested in fashion, or children, or recipes, or sewing. She sang like an angel. Raoul was not musically inclined; the opera tended to bore him to tears (Heaven forbid anyone should find _that _out), but not when Christine was the one singing. He imagined her singing for their friends at soirees. Parties at the deChagny estate would be the envy of all Paris.

Not only was Christine talented, she was beautiful. She was the sort of girl he would be proud to take shopping in the town. And they _would_ have to go shopping; her wardrobe was so austere! In fact, now that he thought about it, she would have to stop being so bookish in general. Everyone knew that too much study could overload a woman's delicate, weak mind and drive her mad. She needed to spend less time with her nose in books, and more time on pursuits more appropriate to a woman. Perhaps she would enjoy taking up needlepoint.

These happy thoughts kept him smiling as he stepped down from the carriage. Then he thought of the mysterious music teacher. No doubt it was this man who was encouraging Christine to behave so strangely. He thought it sloppy management that neither of the managers had demanded to meet Christine's teacher. Phillippe should have something to say about that. No young woman should be allowed to meet with an unknown man.

_He won't remain unknown for long, _thought Raoul. _I will find him out. If no one else will protect Christine's honor, I will. _If he could prove Christine to be a good, chaste girl, his brother could have no objections to their relationship. Feeling heroic and very noble, Raoul began to make plans. He would have to be very careful not to alert Christine to his intentions.


	50. First Kiss

The next day, as she waited for the teapot to boil over the fire, Christine sat curled in her father's chair trying to sort herself out. Raoul was everything a young man should be and everything that a girl should want. He was very handsome, polite, refined, and able to provide for her every want. Any other girl in the Opera Populaire would give her hair to be courted by him. But Raoul was not passionate or very intelligent. He treated her like a child, and disapproved of the thing she loved most in life – performing music onstage.

Erik, on the other hand… Erik had given her music and forced her to educate herself. He awoke her passion with a word or a touch of the keyboard. His eyes burned through her, thrilling every nerve. Raoul was never at a loss for sweet words and compliments; Christine tired of his honeyed conversation almost before it began.

Erik rarely complimented her and never spoke sweetly to her, and yet she valued every moment spent with him more than gold. She thought of the rare moments when Erik's guard dropped and she was able to glimpse the man behind the cold exterior. She thought of his tears on her wrists, his light kisses on her palms. Her cheeks burned, her stomach fluttered, and her throat tightened. Then she thought of his face. _No, _she told herself firmly, holding his hideous image in her imagination. _You can't possibly be… _But she was.

"In love with him…"

She said it out loud, wonderingly, and looked towards the mirror. The words fit strangely in her mouth. Singing opera meant singing about love. Many of the greatest operas were written about love, usually tragically doomed love. She sang about love nearly every day, affecting the tones and expressions of a woman deep in its throes. Never once had she felt the emotion. Now, as she waited for Erik to arrive for tea, she found herself nearly bouncing on her tiptoes in anticipation. She paced the parlor, looking anxiously towards the mirror every few steps.

She was pacing still when Erik entered the mirror-chamber. He watched her for awhile, at once admiring her and wondering what put her in such a state. He noted her frequent glances towards the mirror. _She's probably regretting making the invitation. _He knocked lightly on the glass.

"Come in." She sounded far more relaxed than she looked.

He stepped out and bowed in greeting, not having the first idea of how to proceed. She gestured towards the couch. "Please have a seat. The kettle's just boiling. I'll be in with the tea set in a moment."

Erik nervously sat down, realizing that he had never done so in this room before. Christine bustled about for a moment, setting out cups and saucers, milk and sugar. Once the tea was poured and sweetened, Christine sat opposite him. She was staring at him with the same strange, anxious look she was casting at the mirror before he entered the room. He felt oddly like a mouse in a room with a hungry cat.

"Shouldn't we be making pleasant conversation?" he asked. "What do you talk about when the deChagny boy comes calling?"

Christine felt the barb hit home. They talked about nothing, but pride would not let her admit as much to her haughty Angel. "We…we just… talk. That's all." It sounded weak in her own ears. She knew it wouldn't fool Erik. He was too perceptive. Would he guess before she told him?

"Ah. You 'just talk'. What would you like to 'just talk' about?" His tone was challenging. He didn't want to be this way with her, but his bitterness seemed to have a life of its own.

She blinked. This wasn't at all what she envisioned when she invited him. She was not sure what she had envisioned, but certainly not this. If he insisted on being difficult, then she would reply with bluntness.

"Your sonata. I want to talk about the sonata you played for me the night I…"she swallowed; her throat feeling dry and sandy. "The night I took your mask off."

His formal, haughty exterior stiffened further. "It was just a piece I picked up somewhere. I don't know what you'd find to talk about in it."

Christine sighed and closed her eyes. He would not make this easy for her. She began to suspect that he could not. "I don't believe you. That was your music. I heard you speaking to me. I heard the words…"

He was no longer looking at her; his stiff posture crumbled to a hunch. "There were no words."

"Only because you could not speak them." She watched him turn away from her. Too many times her Angel had turned from her. She stood behind him, rested her forearms on his shoulders. Erik tried to shrink away, but she wrapped her arms over his chest and leaned in so that her mouth was close to his ear.

Christine's gentle arms surrounded him. The delicate sachet she wore teased his sense of smell. Then he felt her face near his, heard her breathing. She whispered, "You could not speak them, but I can. You wrote that music… for me. I think you meant for me to hear. Do you want to know what I heard, Erik?"

He opened his mouth, and made some sound. She was torturing him, and he was breaking. "There were…no…words." She felt this whisper more than she heard it.

"But there were." The brim of his hat was between them; she removed it. Now her lips were touching his ear, warm and soft. This torture was perfect and exquisite; he prayed it would not end.

"I love you." She felt a shudder wrack his thin, muscular body. "That is what you played. I heard, but I could not harmonize." Christine slid around him, keeping her arms around him for fear he would run otherwise. "I can harmonize with you now, Angel."

Now only his mask was between them; she removed it in one fluid motion. He was staring at her, hypnotized. The feeling of unreality, of waking dreams, washed through him. He willed himself to wake but she was still there, kneeling before him, her slender arms around his neck, her pretty face inches from his dreadful one – and she was _not caring_. One word forced its way up from the murky depths of his consciousness. "No…"

"Yes." Her voice worked magic on him. "Yes. I love you, Angel…Erik."

If he were not already sitting, he would have fallen. He opened his mouth to protest, to deny her statement. No sound emerged.

And then she kissed him.

Christine had kissed her father, her mother, Mme Giry, and other people she regarded as family. Those kisses were small things, hardly important in the grand scheme of things. Erik had never been kissed, had never kissed anyone, and had barely allowed himself to imagine kissing anyone. In his dreams, the women he kissed all died.

When Christine's lips met his, it was awkward, ill-fitting. At first, he was too shocked to move; his rational mind fought fiercely, screaming, "Impossible! Unthinkable!" But then her lips parted and he gave in to the dream. He relaxed into her embrace, as he had never permitted himself to relax before. As he relaxed, she shifted and suddenly it was right. Softness touched softness, their eyes were closed. There were no faces, no voices. There was only the warmth and taste of the other. Erik heard blood singing in his ears. His mind was all a dark blue fog: _Like her eyes, _he thought. His fear and bitterness became hopelessly lost in that fog. His arms enveloped her, pulling her lissome body close to his.

Her Angel held her close to him. She felt his heart pounding, his chest expanding as he breathed her in. She opened her mouth slightly and tasted him. His kiss, his embrace, matched his music –dark and passionate. She began to withdraw; his arms tightened around her for the briefest of instants before he let her go. Through the dizzy giddiness that made the world spin around her, she contemplated the small, blissful smile painted on his twisted features. If he never spoke a kind word to her, never smiled at her again, she would know the truth of his mind from this moment.

"Yes?" she asked, her tone gently teasing.

Erik nodded, unable to erase the small smile. "Yes, Christine. I…" he stopped short, unable to say more. The mask lay just inches away; its white plaster glowing. Without it, Erik felt exposed and weak. He reached for it, but her hand slipped into his before he could get to it. _She knew I would try to get it back,_ he thought, feeling uneasy. _She knew, and she does not want me to wear it. How can I make her understand? _He found that he could not easily meet her eyes without it. The kiss, though exquisite, had not begun to heal the years' accumulation of loneliness, fear, and shame.

"You don't need that with me, now. Can you not see that?" He heard the hurt in Christine's voice. She did not understand what it was to be ashamed, to be reviled. It was nothing she should ever know.

"It is better that I wear it." He gently but firmly pressed past her, took his mask, and covered his repulsive face. Once the mask was firmly in place, he could look at her with a measure of his customary confidence. "You have lulled me into a sweet sleep, Christine. I will allow myself this dream."

He stood, drawing her up with him. A lock of her hair had fallen over her face. He gently tucked the wayward curl behind her ear, then stroked her cheek with reverence, as though she were one of his beloved instruments. The skin was soft and smooth; his fingers thrilled to the sensation. The thought that she had touched his own gross imperfection made his face burn, but his mask covered the flush as it covered his shame.

The fire cracked and popped behind them. Christine leaned her face into his touch, her eyes closed, her breathing light. "Are we dreaming?" She opened her eyes. "I'm more awake now than I've ever been." She stepped back, creating space between them. "Why is wearing the mask better, Erik? Why hide from one who loves you?"

"You would not understand."

"That sounds like a thing Raoul would say." Christine grumbled.

The effect on Erik was frightening. The dreamy expression dropped from his face, his eyes blackened, and his hands tightened into fists. He turned away from Christine in a weak attempt to hide his surge of ill-temper.

"Is that so." His voice was a cold condemnation. How could she compare him in any way to that useless boy?

"Yes." Inside, Christine trembled to be the target of his controlled rage. She had not seen him angry often, but when it happened, he was more Phantom than Erik. That strange, dark side seemed truly inhuman, and it occurred to her how little provocation was needed to evoke the Ghost. She could not permit him this temper tantrum over so small (in her estimation) a statement; it was unseemly. It was not lady-like to raise one's voice, she knew, nor was it very healthy for said voice.

With a controlled ferocity that spun Erik back to face her, she said, "Constantly, I am told that I would not understand this, or I'm too young to comprehend that. Or that I'm a woman – as though I did not know – and therefore incapable of thought. You gave me books to study. You grilled me on my lessons. You should know better than to tell me what I will or will not understand without giving me the opportunity first!"

Her arms were folded firmly across her chest, her eyes flashed. She was no longer trembling. The expression on Erik's face was obscured by the mask, but his posture said that he was quite taken aback. _Good, _she thought, _let him see that you are no child._

"I might well understand…more than you think. Is it because you think me a stupid child that you have never told me your own stories?" She was leaning slightly towards her startled mentor, flushed with anger of her own. "Silly little Christine wouldn't understand?"

No one had opposed his wrath since he was a small child at Hannah's knee. Christine _would not _understand, of course, and it had nothing to do with her intelligence. How could he explain? He wanted his past to stay neatly buried where he left it; if she knew that the object of her love was nothing more than an escapee from a freak show, would her love be replaced by pity and contempt? But he could not bear for her to be angry with him, not so soon after she declared her love for him. Erik held his hands out in a gesture of placation.

"Christine, no…no. They…those stories…" He began to speak, but stopped when he realized the words would only come in a stammer.

Some of the sharpness left her eyes. When his aggressive posture melted into one of anxious resignation, she felt that she could likewise release her own anger. "Tell me, Erik. Why is it better that you hide from me behind that mask? Where do you come from? I've lost my heart you, but I don't even know how old you are, or your last name; how can I love you if I don't know you? " she touched his extended hands, wordlessly forgiving him for his outburst.

"It is not a very pleasant story." Erik's eyes studied her hands, the floor, the fireplace. He could not meet her sincere, innocent gaze. "And it's one that will pain me greatly in the telling. But if you insist…"

"Please, Erik?"

"…I will tell you whatever you wish to know. Only remember: No matter what my story might be, I am still the man you have known for eight years. And, I will need some time. In three nights I will come to you. Until then…goodbye." He gently kissed her hand, lingering over the petal-soft skin and her sweet scent.

"Goodbye…" but he was already through the mirror and gone.


	51. Eavesdropping Nobility

Raoul stood outside the heavy oak door, one hand raised to knock, the other clutching a bouquet of daffodils and bluebells. Inside the apartment there were two voices: Christine's and…a man's.

He heard Christine's voice say "Please, Erik?" _So, this is the music teacher_, thought Raoul_, the man to whom she dedicated all her performances._ At first, the man's words were too quiet to hear through the thick wood, but once he applied his ear to the door and stilled his breathing he was able to make out the rest. "…you have known for eight years. And, I will need some time. In three nights I will come to you. Until then…goodbye." Seconds later, Christine's voice murmuring, and then silence. The silence went on for a brief moment, then Christine began to hum something from an Opera Raoul had never heard before. It was a pretty tune that was at once melancholy and sweet.

Raoul stood ramrod straight outside the door, waiting for his rival to emerge. He forced his heart to slow to its normal rhythm. He quickly planned a challenge. He would face the man, bow, and say, "Sir, I do believe you have wronged the lady's honor." If he were at all a gentleman he would be forced to respond. Christine's humming went on for several minutes. Raoul heard her practice a few scales. The strange man did not emerge. Raoul pictured him sitting in the cracked leather chair, drinking tea while Christine…did what? He couldn't imagine.

An entire half-hour passed. A servant carrying a coal scuttle made her ponderous way down the corridor, giving Raoul a curious look. The sidelong glance clearly asked what the well-dressed young gentleman was doing standing in the hall with a fistful of flowers. Raoul gathered his dignity and knocked three times. A few moments later, the door opened. Christine smiled at him, her eyes dreamy. At any other time, or with any other girl, Raoul would have assumed that dreamy look to be for him. He had heard the man's low and mellow voice, promising to return in three nights' time. _Nights_. Was the dreamy look for him? Or for this Erik, whom no one had ever seen.

"Raoul, what pretty flowers!"

"I hate to intrude on you, especially if you have a guest…?" He craned his neck, trying to see into the parlor.

Christine swallowed the nervous lump in her throat. How could he have known? How long had been standing in the hall? The flowers in his hand looked slightly crumpled, but no other clue presented itself.

"Of course not." She thought of the half-filled teacups sitting out on the coffee table. "Would you like to take a walk? It is a beautiful day, and I haven't anything to do until dinner." She watched Raoul examine the interior of her apartment like a suspicious gendarme. There was nothing to see from this angle, of course. "Raoul?"

"Uh..of course, Christine, if a walk would please you." He saw no one, but the owner of the voice _must_ still be inside. The speaker could be hiding in her bedroom, the coat closet, her bedroom…

"It would. Shall I put those in some water first?" She nodded towards the bouquet he had nearly forgotten.

"Yes. They are for you. May I step into your vestibule while you do that? The hallway is drafty." Raoul expected a polite refusal. If there was another man in her apartment, surely she would not want him in there.

"Oh dear, it _is_ drafty there. This wing of the building never does get warm until high summer. Do step in." she took the flowers and carried them into her kitchen, quickly putting them into a decorative pitcher with some water.

"There are two cups on the coffee table, Christine. I thought you said no one was here." His tone was accusatory and reproving. "I knew I heard a voice…" He walked into the parlor from the vestibule as though he had been invited.

"You were eavesdropping on me?" Christine's newfound temper flared within her. The gall of this man! "Where are you going? It is not proper for…"

"There's a man in your apartment, Christine. You have no room to tell me about what is proper!"

Christine stepped in his path, her hands on her hips, and her cheeks a furious red. "Stop this minute, Raoul DeChagny. I don't know what you think you heard, but you have no right to search my private apartments! There is no one here, except you, and if you don't stop, I will go get Mme Giry."

Raoul scoffed at the weightless threat. Mme Giry was no obstruction to him; his brother paid the woman's salary. "That's an excellent idea, Christine. Let's do go and get Mme Giry. When we leave, you can lock the door behind you so that _your visitor_ is locked in. Then we will all come back and search together."

"That's ridiculous, Raoul. There. Is. No. One. Here." Her voice rose in volume, but dropped in register.

"Christine, don't get angry. I know there is someone here, because I heard his voice. You are a young girl, and a very pretty one. Some man has been…taking advantage…of your living alone and having no father to protect you. _I_ will protect you and your honor. I, and my brother - who owns this place."

In her indignation, Christine had forgotten that fact. Raoul could ruin her life here if he so chose. Erik had taught her much about music and voice, but now she used lessons learned from M. Reyeurre and the directors. She had been a terrible actress the first time she rehearsed. By opening night, she was truly first lady of the stage. Now, she covered her anger with what she hoped was a convincing air of naive innocence.

"You did hear a male voice, Raoul. But I swear to you: there is no one else here. It was the voice of my good Angel. Since I was a little girl, my angel speaks to me at night, teaching me and guiding me. But I've never seen him. He is only a voice."

Raoul pitied Christine her naiveté. She obviously believed in this Angel. He had to find where the man was hiding. They would lock the door and search the place carefully. Once she could see that he was a man and certainly no angel, she would accept Raoul as her protector. That is when he would propose…

"Alright. Let us go as Mme Giry to come look for this Angel of yours, shall we?" He offered his arm and led her down the hall. Christine accepted the escort, overjoyed to get Raoul out of her quarters. With Mme Giry present, the search would not be too intensive, and Meg would be happy to keep the protective young man distracted. Meanwhile, Christine played to Raoul's expectations. She feared reprisal should she resist. Her whole life - and now her heart - was inseparably entwined with the Opera Populaire and its inhabitants.

"Raoul, you will find no one, I assure you. But if you think it best, we will let Mme Giry look. It's just not proper, "she summoned a blush, "for a _man _to search a lady's quarters."

Raoul had the goodness to feel a little guilty as he escorted her down the hallway. "I do apologize, Christine." He stopped and took her hands. He stared so intently into her eyes that Christine became uncomfortable. "It's only that…when I heard a man's voice in your apartment I worried for you. I worried for you because," he paused dramatically. "I love you, Christine!"


	52. He Goes Too Far

Inwardly, Christine wilted. She was loved already, by a man who made poor Raoul look like a boy in knee-pants. How could she salvage Raoul's dignity without lying to him? She smiled at him weakly. Had this been Erik, he would have seen through the poor imitation immediately. As it was, Raoul saw only what he expected to see.

She lowered her eyes shyly and placed one hand over her heart

"Raoul, it has been lovely coming to know you. I enjoy your company. Thank you very much for looking out for me." She prayerfully hoped that he would interpret this as a lady's demurral.

"But do you hear me, Christine? I love you! I would walk the deserts of Africa for you!" Raoul was holding her hands a little too tightly. She winced and tried to gently extract her fingers from his grip.

"Oh, Raoul, you are such a nice gentleman. You've been a dear friend to me. But do you think your family will approve of your feelings for me? I am only an Opera girl, and you are the younger brother of the noble Vicompte deChagny. I fear that your brother would never condone anything between us." She could think of no other escape. If Raoul could use his brother's name to force her to let him search her quarters, surely she was justified in using his family's very real objections to their courtship.

Raoul eased his grip on her hands. Christine began walking down the corridor again, hoping to keep him moving. This mortifying experience could not end soon enough.

"Is _that_ it, Christine?" Raoul asked, elated. He fairly jogged along behind her. "You feel you must cool your tenderness towards me because you are below my station?"

She kept walking, avoiding his eyes. "It would seem the prudent course." _Were I in love with you, _she finished the thought silently.

"That's not a problem. I'm sure he wouldn't object at all, if you were willing to make one little promise…" Raoul thought of his daydream with Christine singing in the drawing room amongst a gathering of France's finest people.

"What is that little promise?" She could guess easily enough.

"Why, only that you promise to stop singing for your supper, Christine. A beautiful voice like yours - a beautiful lady like you – should not be paraded around on a stage for the entire world to see. You could still sing, of course, for the family and at parties and so forth…"

Raoul continued talking, but Christine was no longer hearing him. When he said, "stop singing" her mind had shut him out. She doggedly led him towards Mme Giry's apartments and knocked on the door.

Meg answered the door, and invited the young couple in. She thought how handsome Raoul looked, and how irked Christine looked. They settled into the parlor to wait for Mme Giry to return from her duties in the servants' hall. Meg tried to chat with Christine, but found that her friend was unwilling to respond beyond a curt syllable or two. Instead, she turned to the young gentleman, and asked after his health and his family's.

Having ascertained that he and his family were indeed very well, thank you, Meg commented on the weather, Carlotta's gradually improving voice, and the latest Operetta in which Christine was to star. This last drew a smile from Christine, but a dark look from Raoul. The discomfort in the room was palpable. Fortunately, Mme Giry chose that moment to return.

After explaining his request to Mme Giry, Raoul got up as if he expected the women to troupe after him. When he did not hear the swish of slippers following him, he turned to stare at them. Each still sat in place: Christine looking smug, Meg with an expression of anxiety on her normally gay features, and Mme Giry giving him a look he remembered from his childhood – when his mother found it necessary to scold him.

"Well then, aren't you coming?"

"Monsieur Raoul, I may be only a Housekeeper, but I feel I must make bold to enlighten you on some matters." She stood and crossed to the hearth, testing the spotless mantelpiece for dust. "The first is that young ladies should be let alone by young gentlemen. They certainly should not be subject to searches of their private quarters. I'd not even force such indignities on the young girls in my dormitories."

"But I…" Mme Giry continued as though he had not spoken.

"The second is that the Management and I have been aware of Christine's invisible voice teacher for many, many years now. He has been strict, but never ill-treated the girl. Without a doubt, she would not be the Prima Donna today were it not for his teaching. So I will not search her apartments for him. I know his nature, and what she says is true. He will not be found skulking in her closets."

Raoul riled. "My brother will…" The threat was evident in his voice and face, but Mme Giry was a veteran of the opera business, and understood her place very well.

"Your brother will not. You are young, Monsieur deChagny, and therefore you don't understand some aspects of business. Your brother shan't interfere in this matter as he has in others." Here, she gave Christine a small, motherly smile. "I may be bent old woman, but I do more 'managing' here than Poligny and Debienne together, and your brother is wise enough to know that. The honorable Vicompte DeChagny will not let me go, because I make too much money for him. Similarly, he will not force this little angel off the stage. Where, I believe, she is very happy to be."

"But it is for Christine's own good, Madame! Surely you do not think it healthy that some disembodied voice visits her in her private rooms at night?" Raoul was accustomed to having his way. This somberly dressed old woman was beginning to frustrate him.

"Believe me, young Monsieur, when I tell you that Christine's honor is as intact today as ever it was. And if you'd like a bit of a withered old lady's advice, I'd tell you that to win a beautiful girl's heart, you must begin with trust and respect, not with her bedroom." The good Madame patted the distraught young man on the shoulder. "Now, if you'll pardon me, the dining staff will be drying the fish and spotting the silverware without my direction." She smiled reassuringly at Christine and bustled from the room.

Raoul was incensed. Why was no one else worried about Christine's welfare? He considered going back to Christine's room and looking anyway, but she had locked the door and did not appear to be in the mood to let him back in. He would simply have to find out about the mysterious voice teacher some other way. In the meantime, he looked at Christine. She was so pretty, sitting there with Meg. She was the victim in all of this; victim to her imaginary 'Angel', and victim to the neglectful care of Mme Giry and the management. _In three nights' time, I will solve this._


	53. The Truth

Erik's fingers absently tapped out the Gymnopedie on his piano as he threw his unwilling mind back into the shades of his past. The swirling specters that he had banished from his dreams better than a decade before rose again to haunt him. As much as he loved Christine, as willing as he was to be her creature, Erik did not want to remember those things that had left the flesh of his back almost as ruined as the flesh of his face. That time had passed; he was no longer the pathetic, huddling worm Herroux's brutality had created. How could he recount those years truthfully to her without lowering himself in her eyes?

"_I don't even know how old you are - or your last name…"_

Christine was the only person who had ever dared to love him. She had a right to know those simple things. His mother's title was the Duchess de Valliere, though Erik never connected himself with that name. Now, though, he understood that as her first-born son he had the right to…

"Nothing," he murmured. "And that is exactly what I must tell her." Realizing that he had spoken aloud, Erik reverted to unhappy thought. _No matter what I aspire to, no matter how great my works, I can never rise higher than the Opera basement. That useless boy whose servants tie his shoes and wipe his nose will always be a greater man than I, in the eyes of society. _ At that thought, Erik's traditional disdain for the young aristocrat twisted into something darker and more malignant. It was an injustice beyond countenance.

He would be able to answer her question about his name. That was a relief. It would be necessary to make it absolutely clear that his name had no bearing on his prospects, but at least he knew the answer. What of his age? The night he killed Herroux he had been celebrating his tenth birthday, but the celebration was a kindness given to him by Hannah. He did not know his real birth date. Since then, he had let the years pass unnoticed.

The night he first heard the music of the Opera, _Tristan und Isolde _was playing. It was an annual production. How many times had he heard it performed since? Fourteen or fifteen times at least. That would place his age somewhere in the mid-twenties. He was certainly no older than twenty-eight…

Erik's hand slammed down on the keyboard, producing a terrible cacophony. Frustration boiled over into fury. The piano bench toppled, then flew across the room and shattered when he kicked it. _Everything_ had been taken from him! Even drooling toddlers in their mothers' arms could hold up three fingers to show how old they were. And here he was, fancying himself a genius when he could not even tell his own age. He dropped his mask to the floor and pressed his hands to his face, forcing the rage to recede. In the archives there would be playbills. It would be simple to figure his age from the cast listings on the bills.

Christine thought she wanted to know his story. Erik wondered what she expected to hear. As a child, she had been reared on pretty stories, faerie-tales with happy endings. Even operatic tragedies had nobility and grace. His was a tale devoid of beauty or grace – and as to the ending…

He took a piece of the paper he normally reserved for his notes to the management and began to write a brief timeline beginning with his earliest memories of Hannah and ending with the moment he heard Christine sing for the first time. There was a memory he need not chase away. The child's pure voice sounded as heart-breakingly sweetly in his mind now as it had the first time he heard it.

Quickly reading over his work, Erik noticed that he had over-emphasized the pleasant aspects of life with Hannah while barely skating over the three years in the freak show, characterizing Herroux's brutality as "frequent chastisements" and his near starvation as "underfeeding". Leslie had "helped him leave" after a "confrontation" with Herroux. Erik shook his head. How close this was to lying! Was he really like Raoul, treating Christine as though she were a feeble child in order to protect her from simple truth?

The piano stool lay broken in its corner. The mask lay on the floor, its plaster chipped. Erik stood quietly, contemplating the result of his temper. It was that uncontrolled, animalistic part of him that he could not bear to let Christine know. To tell her the truth would be to lay bare the life that had driven him into the bowels of the Opera house, which had led him to murder twice, which fueled his rages and his despair. A life of which he was deeply ashamed.

If he told her the truth, she would no longer ask "How can I love you if I don't know you?" She would say, "Now that I know you, how can I love you?" At least, that's what she _would_ say, if she did not simply stand up and flee from him. She would understand that he belonged in the dark underground; she would go to take her place in the sunlight.

But Christine had asked this of him, and he had agreed. This list of well-intentioned lies would never pass his lips. The crumpled paper joined the broken piano bench. Erik closed his eyes and plunged into his past again. The memories were painful, but they were the only story he had. He would tell it honestly and completely; she would judge him as she saw fit.


	54. A Modest Proposal

Since Christine's enigmatic dedication, sweeping success, and subsequent thrilling disappearance the Opera Populaire had become an overnight sensation. Composers with a fresh work wanted the shy, pretty virtuoso to sing their female lead. The managers were swamped with artists who claimed to have written their work "just for her." Most of these they turned away after cursory glances at the scores or lyrics. Because Christine was a beautiful young girl, many of the parts were written from the perspective of male fantasy. Mssrs. Debienne and Poligny were painfully conscious that, did they attempt to permit one of these racy operettas on stage, they would only be saved from the Opera Ghost by death at the hands of the very protective Mme Giry.

In her younger years, La Carlotta attracted crowds of admirers who thronged the halls on performance nights seeking her attention by waving fragrant bouquets. Christine and Meg would often sit at the top of the huge curving staircase and watch with childish awe as the Prima Donna gracefully greeted and dismissed her devotees. Now Christine found herself to be the object of veneration. She kept Meg close by whenever possible; she even welcomed Raoul's oppressive presence, since his high-society status gave him sway over the crowds.

The young diva's retiring demeanor only endeared her to her followers. Her shy smiles and genuinely grateful curtsies were a refreshing change from the supercilious attitude of La Carlotta. Her self-possession and modest dress allowed them to respect her – something Carlotta's licentious behavior never permitted. Christine was amazed at her own popularity and the speed of her rise to fame, though the rest of the opera house just nodded knowingly. In the managerial offices, Mssrs Debienne and Poligny struggled to keep up with requests from patrons for Annual Passes. They blessed the day the Swedish violinist walked into their Opera house with his skinny daughter.

Whether she was rehearsing for her next performance, taking dinner with Meg or Raoul, or signing playbills for avid followers, Christine's thoughts were on her Angel. Her voice never sounded as rich and full in performance or rehearsal as it did in informal practice beside her teacher. The absence of his music and his voice left her feeling constantly hungry, constantly thirsty, but she could neither eat nor drink. He had only been absent from her side for two days!

At night, in the silence of her little bedroom, she imagined herself on the stony shore of his subterranean dreamland. How had he come to be there? Erik had promised her his story; in just one more night, she would know.

For his part, Raoul felt Christine was finally learning to appreciate him. He reveled in the opportunity to protect her, as well as the opportunity to be seen with his beautiful flower on his arm. Her celebrity worried him, since the adulation of the public would only make it more difficult for her to settle down to a proper life at home. He let that go in light of his more immediate problem. How would he manage to catch and expose her mysterious voice teacher? She would not speak of her Angel, no matter how Raoul prodded. Now, two days after eavesdropping on her conversation with her "Angel", Raoul tried again to pry the truth from her.

"Christine, your teacher must be amazing. Your voice is the most beautiful I have ever heard! All the opera aficionados say that there is not a voice to parallel yours on this continent."

"Thank you, Raoul."

"And you've really never met him? That's most… unusual"

"No. He is only a Voice."

"Is that not frustrating for you?"

"It is not my place to question."

"Could you not simply ask him to appear? You could refuse to sing until he showed himself."

"It is not my place to demand."

"He is quite strict with you, is he not?"

"My Angel only does what is necessary to teach me."

"You do not truthfully believe an Angel is visiting you, do you?"

"Raoul, have you seen the latest fashions for men's opera canes? I saw one gentleman with Oriental scrollwork in silver down the side of his…"

"When does he come to you? Do you look in your closets and under your bed for this hidden intruder? Do you think your father would approve?"

"Oh, Raoul, I cannot answer these questions! I wish you would not press me so." She placed one hand to her bosom in an affectation of delicacy. "I feel faint. Will you kindly escort me to my room?"

All such conversations seemed to end with a request to return to her room. If Christine was truly this delicate she would need a nurse to care for her once they were married. How would she ever manage to bear his children? Raoul stole furtive glances at her now, as he returned her to her room. Her cheeks did look pale. Meg claimed that Christine had barely eaten a mouthful over the past two days. Fame was taking a serious toll on her fragile health. He would be her shelter, would guide her to a way of life more suited to her feminine nature.

At her door, he stopped her, knelt in front of her and reached into his breast pocket. Christine's eyes widened, her breath caught in her throat. The gestures were unmistakable.

_Not now_, she thought miserably. _Raoul, you sweet, foolish boy! _

"Christine, you are unlike any girl I have ever known. You are beautiful, talented…every time I see you, you are more entrancing. You need care and guidance. Let… let me be the man who takes care of you. Christine, will you marry me?" He opened a tiny black box to reveal a sparkling ring. Christine gasped. This was ridiculous. How could she turn him down without breaking his heart? He was so earnest in his affections. As nice as he was, she did not - could not – love him. He was a pleasant companion at the best of times; most of the time, though, he flatly irritated her.

"Oh, Raoul! I…I…I'm so surprised! And…and flattered. This is most…unexpected…" her words straggled from her faltering lips. He knelt there, expectantly gazing up into her face. "But.. but I can't…accept you just now. There are…so many things…and I'm…just…

Crestfallen, but unsurprised, Raoul took the jewel from its box and pressed it into her trembling hand. He wrapped her fingers around it and stood slowly. "There, darling, keep it and think of me. I understand that you can't accept _right now_, but in time you will see that we were made for each other. Just think, someday you could be the Vicomptesse deChagny! I would care for you, Christine. You would have your tiniest whim…"

She tried to hand the cold piece of metal back to him, but he would have none of it. "Keep it Christine, please."

Sweetly, sadly, she sighed. "If it will satisfy you, then I will keep it. Please know that I consider you a dear friend. I really must rest now. Today has been…overwhelming."

"Is there any task I can perform for you, Christine? Anything you need done, I will do it. " Raoul hid his disappointment bravely. He had half expected this sort of reaction – she was so emotionally vulnerable. Now was the time to be patient with her and eventually she would see reason. One had to be patient with women.

"No, thank you." Christine's voice was tinged with desperation. "I can manage. Goodnight, M. deChagny!" She dropped a little curtsy to him and closed the door the rest of the way. Raoul listened for her to turn her deadbolt, but the telltale 'thump' of a heavy iron bolt sliding home never came. Did she never lock her door at night? He did not dare believe it could be so easy as that. He stood outside her door, daydreaming about her golden curls and soft little hands. He was walking away when he heard her calling out softly.

Once she felt she was alone, Christine scrutinized herself in the mirror. Usually her complexion mimicked the blooms of early summer roses, now she looked pale and washed-out. Erik's absence was taking a serious toll on her normally robust health. Once, many years before, he told her that he would hear her if she called from her parlor. How that could be she did not know - but she believed.

"Erik?" She called softly. Then, gaining strength simply from pronouncing his name, she called again, loudly. "Erik? Please, come to me, Angel."

After finishing the notations on his life, Erik fell into a wretched state of torpor. The memories of being small and helpless invaded his spirit. He could only sit with his head on his knees; that is, until he remembered the music – _her _music. The music of her movement and her kindness; the music she made when she studied her languages or brushed her hair. Then he dared to think of _their_ music.

The soft melody that surrounded them each time they touched, and when they kissed…! Such beautiful music; it was a symphony he had always thought beyond his hearing. Here on his carefully prepared parchments he could watch as the melody grew from a furtive, clumsy tune to a passionate opera. Erik played each movement as he wrote it, ironing out imperfections. For better than forty hours, the cavernous arches of the Opera Populaire's foundations rang with the booming voice of the pipe organ and the powerful baritone of its master. Neither fatigue nor hunger touched him – he lived on the music.

Now, he could hear her voice echoing down the passageways. Her call was persistent. It drew him away from his music, distracted him from his composition. Did he detect a note of desperation? When it was clear that he'd have no peace unless he at least went to check on her, Erik stood and reluctantly gathered up his cloak and hat. It would hurt nothing to check in on her and see that everything was as it should be.


	55. Come To Me, Angel

"Erik" The pleading calls fell on Raoul's ears in a bitter rain. It wounded his pride to think that she would thrust him away only to summon her "Angel." The ring she tried so hard to refuse was the most magnificent diamond he could find for her; the jeweler assured him that it was flawless. On her hand it would sparkle brilliantly, showcasing the pale skin of her slight fingers. If she would marry him, he would drape her in jewels and clothe her in the finest silks and satins. How could a Swedish born, rural, opera girl not be impressed by those prospects?

But no, she was calling for some invisible teacher who wanted her to parade around on stage as though such behavior were natural and healthy. Raoul sat down and leaned back against her door. At the moment he did not care a fillip that the servants might see him. It was well known that he was courting Christine; it was not so unusual that a suitor should pine outside his ladylove's door. Fresh air from the open windows in her room wafted under her doorjamb and freshened his post. This same breeze would carry their voices to him nicely. Waiting outside Christine's rooms seemed always to be an educational experience; Raoul awaited the Angel's 'appearance' nearly as eagerly as she did.

As was his wont, Erik stood in the mirror-chamber for a moment before announcing his presence. She was standing squarely before him and clutching some small, sparkling object. A few moments' scrutiny revealed the ring for what it was - a finely crafted golden ring with an immense diamond set in it. It was an engagement ring, he realized. Alarm widened his eyes. Willing his voice to remain smooth and serene, he projected it into the room.

"Why do you call me now, Christine. I asked for three days – not such a long time."

Christine made no effort to hide the ring, which reflected the lamplight in a thousand cold sparks. She stepped closer to the mirror, touching its surface with the fingertips of her right hand. He matched her touch, wanting to open the glass and take her in his arms. He could imagine the warm smell of her sachet, the loving look in her eyes, the way she had dared to look directly at him…to touch him…to kiss him…

"Thank goodness you've come. I must talk with you."

Raoul's palm slicked with sweat as he slowly, slowly turned the doorknob. His fear-sensitive ears could hear the mechanism ratcheting but he continued in his sneaky endeavor, his fear of discovery overcome by curiosity – and jealousy. Carefully he inched the door open until he could peer through the crack to see Christine's beautiful silhouette facing the mirror. He could see no man, though he surely heard one. Perhaps this "Angel" of Christine's – but that was preposterous. Time would play out this mystery.

Remaining cool and distant, Erik responded, "You are not hurt? Not ill?"

"No. Nothing like that, but…"

"Then I must return to my work." He turned to leave.

"Raoul proposed to me." Christine waited for Erik's reaction. And waited.

No sound issued from the mirror-chamber; no ghostly voice projected itself into the parlor. The silence pressed in until she feared her Angel had simply left her without a parting word.

"Erik? Angel?"

"The foppish boy proposed to you. Naturally, he wants to marry you. And he's such a fine catch. His manners, his money – _his face_ – are all perfect. And look…there glistens his ring in your little hand." For the second time since she had come to know him as her Angel of Music, Erik's voice was as dull and harsh as granite. It pained her ears and struck a discordant note in her heart. "His ring…" Erik spoke sotto voce in that terrible, dead-dull tone and though Christine could still hear him, Raoul could not. "and of course you have accepted him. My dream is ended, your dream begins…"

"No, Erik…" The words piled up behind the lump filling her throat.

"You will dance in the sunshine. A beautiful young girl like you…will make a comely…Vicomptess. You belong in a mansion," In Erik's mind, Christine laughed gaily amidst a flock of high-born women, shadowing their gaudy prettiness with her holy beauty.

"Please listen…"

But Erik was only just recovering from the pain of his memories. This new shock was more than his wounded spirit could take. "With jewels and silks…servants…all the good and beautiful things you deserve…and I cannot…can never…give. " his voice dropped lower and sounded more and more like a wraith's moan with each phrase.

"_I refused him_, Erik. Please…" She tapped loudly on the mirror with her fingertips, unable to bear anymore. "Please. I did _not _accept him. Please, my Angel of Music, I need you." She was very near tears.

What happened next amazed and infuriated the spying Vicompte. The glass of the mirror swung open and a tall, thin man in black opera clothes stepped out.

_From…the mirror? _Raoul's confused thoughts clanged in his normally placid mind.

This man wore the trademark white mask of the Opera Ghost, but of course no such creature existed. So why was this _man_ masquerading as the Ghost masquerading as Christine's Angel? Raoul gathered himself to jump up and spring into the room but froze, dumbfounded, as Christine took the man into her arms. Willingly, without fear or shame, like some brazen opera coquette. She had never done so with him. And this meant she had lied! She had lied to him about having met her voice teacher!

This man had bewitched her somehow. Maybe he really was a Ghost…or something worse. Had Christine sold her soul to a demon in exchange for that unearthly voice of hers? But that sort of thought was lunacy. Raoul quashed his superstitious thoughts. He would hunker down and let the scene play out, then he would decide his next course of action. No matter what this…thing…was, Raoul was not prepared to battle it. Not yet.

With a little cry of joy, Christine leaned her head against Erik's bony chest and snaked her arms around his waist. He was worrisomely thin; the wiry muscle lay close under his pallid skin. She wondered if he had eaten at all over the last few days. Rising on her tiptoes, so that her mouth approached his ear, Christine whispered, "How could I agree to marry another when the man I love is _right here_ in my arms? Did you not believe me the first time? Did you not promise to allow us this dream?"

Life flickered and then blazed in his deep-set eyes like fire blooming from a tiny spark. His arms floated up to enclose her in a possessive embrace. "You…choose me? How…?"

"Take me home, Erik."

He blinked. She was home, wasn't she?

"_Your_ home. I will not bother you, I promise. I won't even speak to you. Until tomorrow." Erik would have objected, but Christine turned her dark blue eyes up to his and smiled prettily.

"There will be nothing for you to do…" _Where has The Phantom gone, Erik? Where's the man who runs the Opera Populaire with an iron fist? Why can't you stand up to a mass of curls and big blue eyes? Tell her no... tell her NO. _


	56. The Lake House

Erik's inner battle showed in his eyes. Christine followed his internal debate, pleased to see that there was no immediate refusal.

In an attempt to sway the conflict in her favor, she promised, "I will sit silently in a corner, translate Italian and drink weak tea. I won't be a bit of trouble, I promise. Please!"

The "please" undid him. She had chosen him; he could not very well deny her first request, could he?

"Very well. See that you remain silent until tomorrow evening. Not a word. If one word – _one syllable_ - touches your lips within my hearing (and my hearing is excellent, Christine) I shall bring you back here to your rooms." _How ironic, _he thought, _my favorite sound in all the world and I am banning it. Who am I testing: Christine or myself?_

"Yes. Silence. I promise." She sounded sincere.

Without another word, Erik pulled Christine through the mirror chamber and into the dark corridors beyond. He had not brought a candle with him; he had not expected to bring the lady home. He guided her carefully over the wires and levers and barbs. Why had he ever created the stupid things? No one but a couple of silly children had ever ventured beneath the basements. A dark grin twitched on his lips as the memories of "haunting" those children came to him. They had run home to Mme Giry with tales of a Ghost; Mme Giry scolded them soundly for wandering in the basements and sent them to the dormitories without tea or supper.

Christine was true to her promise. Not a sound did she utter as her guide pulled her along the twisting hallways. Erik mused over what this must be like for her. His eyes were attuned to the gloom by years of living in darkness. Even without a candle, the tiny beams of light that infiltrated the corridor through miniscule cracks in the walls were enough to light his way by day. At night, he could traverse his haunts by memory. But Christine's eyes were used to light. If he let go of her arm, she would be instantly lost.

This innocent child thought she wanted to choose him, to choose the darkness. He studied her unfocused eyes, squinting desperately to see anything in the gloom. She had promised not to speak to him until the following evening. If he let loose her hand now, would she immediately break her promise? Would she call for him? Or would she trust him...

Christine's hand was suddenly empty. There was no sound, no light. She held her breath, and heard only the pounding of her heart; heavy and panicked. Groping out to both sides, she found one wall and pressed against it. _Now what, Christine? _she asked herself. _If you try to make it back on your own, you will only fall prey to the traps. _

Erik had let her go. Why? Was this a punishment for calling to him and interrupting his work? His name almost burst from her lips in a high, frightened cry; but a single thought, like an illuminating flash of lightning stopped her voice. Was he merely testing her? If this was a test, it was a cruel one. But her Angel of Music _had_ been cruel on occasion, if the cruelty would teach her something. Cruel, he had been, but never once had she come to actual harm. _Trust him,_ she thought. _Find the lesson. _Silently, fearfully, she clung to the wall in the blackness, waiting.

_Brave girl_, Erik thought. Guilt pinched him sharply. _She chooses you, rejects wealth and beauty, and _this _is how you_ _repay her_? _Take her hand, fool. _Glad that Christine could not see his shamed expression, Erik wrapped his long fingers gently around her upper arm. He wanted to justify his behavior with some babbled lies about 'disabling a trap', but wisely held his peace.

When the soft glow of the foundations finally came into view, Christine breathed a sigh of relief. Just as the dark, tight passageways oppressed her, the soaring arches and glowing lanterns of Erik's subterranean palace lifted her spirit. The beatific calm that suffused her eased the anxious lines from her face and relaxed her rigid muscles. This place was home to her, though she had only been here once before.

In accordance with her promise, Christine only smiled her thanks when Erik assisted her into and out of the little boat. Once her feet were firmly on dry ground, Erik stalked off to his composing studio and continued his work. That Christine was so close, that she had rejected the debonair boy in his favor, inspired the music in his mind. Her warm, clean smell clung to his shirt. Looking back over his composition, Erik found several places in the score that would have to be changed; notes of bitterness and anger had no place in this part of the work.

Left abruptly to her own devices, Christine surveyed the stone island. It was impossible not to admire Erik's craftsmanship. The curved walls of his sound-room loomed to her right. Sounds of scratching pen and shuffling paper whispered within. As much as she desired his company, she knew she would not be welcome there now. She turned away to consider her options. To her left was the odd cylindrical building he had warned her never to mention. Directly in front of her was his home. The little cottage looked like a house any rural French carpenter might build. She could already "see" its interior in her imagination. She turned the knob and walked in.

This was Erik's rendering of a "typical" cottage home. Immediately to her left was a little sitting room, which was stunningly like her own parlor. Cunningly disguised lanterns with low-cut wicks dimly lighted it, as in every room. She blinked several times. It was, in fact, a near perfect replica of her parlor as it had been before her father died. The settee, the coffee table, the mantelpiece – everything was in place. Only the mirror was missing.

Unlike her worn furniture, only the leather chair and the fireplace showed any signs of use. She had no way of knowing it, but this cozy family room was Erik's weak attempt at allaying his loneliness. Here, he would let his imagination summon young Christine and her father. He invented conversation between the girl and her father, imagined pieces Nils would play on his violin – imagined himself there with them.

Pulling herself away from the strange scene, she found a little kitchen to the right. It was very small, but neatly kept. She explored the cabinets and cold pantry. There was a dry loaf, a block of hard cheese, a single plate, and a single metal cup in his top cabinets. Several gallons of lamp-oil, common household tools, and sundry supplies filled the lower ones. The cold pantry held only a wooden bowl of thick onion soup from last night's dinner in the refectory and a bottle of milk from that morning's delivery. There was no butter for the bread, no salt or pepper for the soup. She thought of her own cabinets. Though she lived alone, they were filled with all the things she needed to serve a civilized tea to guests. Of course, Erik would have no guests, no visitors, no one dropping by.

There were only three doors left. The next room to the right was his washroom and water-closet. Again, this room was perfectly kept and perfectly sparse. A washcloth and towel hung beside a simple washstand. The water in the washbasin was clean and fresh. _From the lake, _she realized. The soap was the same harsh variety he had offered her to clean the stage makeup from her face. There were no toiletries: no combs and none of fragrant oils fashionable men used to slick their hair. She remembered his hat falling to the stage floor, revealing his thin patches of anemic hair. There was also no mirror here, not even a small hand-held one. The most extraordinary thing about this room was the flushing toilet. Many of the wealthier Parisians had begun having such devices installed in their homes. Erik would have had to install his own. She looked at the piping curiously, wondering where it led. _How clean and _empty_ everything is, _she thought

Across from the water-closet, Christine opened a door into blackness. If the parlor and kitchen were meant to invoke a feeling of normalcy, this room broke the thin illusion. There was no nice lantern-light in here. From the doorway she could barely make out a rectangular object in the center of the room and something against the far wall. There may have been other shapes as well, but it was far too dark to consider exploring without a candle. Did Erik keep candles? If so, she had not found them yet.

The last room was locked. Christine rattled the handle in frustrated curiosity. Someday she would wheedle these secrets from him. For now she was forced to give up. The odd silo-shaped building rose in her memory. Erik commanded her not to ask him about it the first night she visited this place. He never directly told her to leave it alone. She walked as quietly as possible out his front door and listened for the sound of his pen before proceeding.

Her heart pounded in her ears as she reached for the handle. Mme Giry and Meg had given her a horror story to read the year before about a terrible man with the bodies of his murdered wives locked in his closets. She knew Erik _had_ killed, and he was entirely unwilling to discuss this room. Her hand faltered, but boredom and curiosity over-ruled fear. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, opened the door and stepped in. Her slipper tapped on a slick, hard surface. She opened her eyes and gasped; not in fear, but in delighted wonder. Mirrors reflected her image from every direction. The floor and ceiling were mirrors, and hundreds of pieces of mirrored glass made up the walls. Everywhere she looked, her smiling face grinned happily back at her. She began to twirl and dance, admiring the way her skirt flared airily around her.

When the amusement of seeing a thousand dancing Christines wore off, she stood thoughtfully in the center of the room. Why had Erik built such a strange room on his island? She turned slowly, watching her reflection. What if, instead of her pretty face, it were a thousand Eriks? A thousand unmasked Eriks; a thousand ravaged faces with skin like churned, decaying meat and raw pits for noses. The thought was sobering. Suddenly, an image popped into her mind with perfect clarity. She imagined Erik standing in the midst of the mirrors without hat or mask, loathing himself. Torturing himself with every reflection. This room represented many hours of labor spent creating something that could only torment the creator. What was the purpose?

As quietly as she had entered, Christine slipped out of the room. The sound of pen scratching paper continued unabated; he knew nothing of her prying. She wanted to run to Erik, grab him by the lapels, and ask him why. He would be angry with her, though, and she would be breaking her promise. The "whys" would have to wait – at least until tomorrow. Instead of confronting him, she tiptoed to the doorway and leaned against it, watching the Angel of Music at work. There was no fear she might disturb him; he was deep within the music. He wrote furiously, painstakingly placing half notes and sixteenth notes, crescendos and decrescendos. Now and again he would hum or sing a snatch of his work. Even the tiny fragments of song were wrapped in the power of his genius. He was a Magician, weaving spells in music, and she happily let herself be enchanted.


	57. Crusader

"He's some sort of…of witch!" the handsome aristocrat was nearly in hysterics. A feverish flush marred the perfection of his complexion. "He has her under a spell, I am sure of it."

Raoul had sent a carriage to his brother, begging him to come to the Opera Populaire on a matter "of life or death." Now, Phillippe deChagny, M. Debienne, and M. Poligny sat in the managers' office, grim looks plastered across their faces. The young man had spilled his story; he concealed nothing, even for the sake of pride.

"Calm down, Raoul. Tell us again exactly what you saw, without the embroidery." The voice of the elder deChagny was calm and collected. He did not approve of his younger brother's obsession with the singer. Beautiful, intelligent, and talented she might be; nobility –or even respectable bourgeoisie – she was not. Still, if the young woman had been abducted by a strange masked man as his brother claimed, this was a serious situation.

"The mirror opened…" Raoul began.

"How?"

"It was difficult to tell from my position…"

"Lying on the floor, peeking through the crack on the hinge side of the door?" Phillippe's intrusions irritated Raoul, but his older brother's insight had solved difficult situations before this.

"Yes. As I say, it was difficult to see, but the glass appeared to swing inward. Then he stepped out. The Opera Ghost. He stepped into the room and she just… threw herself at him. She begged him to take her with him."

"She _asked_ to go?"

"I couldn't hear some of what they said. They whispered to each other like…like… like trysting lovers." Raoul's anger leaked into his voice. "But at one point she said, 'Take me home'. I heard _that_ plain as day. But I _know_ Christine. She is such a demure, sweet girl! She is so studious and serious. He must have addled her somehow...mesmerized her, or...or..."

Phillippe sighed, exasperated. "If she asked him to take her, addled or no, I don't see how we are justified in following her. If we followed every silly little girl who ran off with a secret lover, we should never do anything else." The logic was plain to the nobleman. If the girl wanted to go and had no family to deny her, then she could go. In fact, if the girl had gone willingly, good riddance. His brother would have to give up his obsession and the Vicompte had no further obligation to "rescue" her.

"But…but…he's a monster! The Opera _Ghost_? He is suspected of murder, no?" Raoul was standing, gesturing frantically. His carefully styled hair had fallen loose over his eyes.

"I'm sorry little brother. I cannot call in the police if the abductee was willing. I understand your fears for the girl's safety, but there's really nothing we can do." The Vicompte stood and bowed to the managers. On his way out of the office he patted his brother's shoulder. "Opera girls are not known for their constancy. If she is trysting with this…masked man… then she is certainly not worthy of your attentions. Forget her, that's my advice." He strode from the room.

The managers rose to leave as well, but Raoul blocked their path. "Tell me what you know of this 'Opera Ghost'."

M. Debienne shook his head, one hand unconsciously stroking his chubby throat where it billowed from his snug cravat. "If the Ghost is truly her invisible teacher, he has been so for years and has not hurt her. Why risk your life now meddling in his affairs?"

"And Monsieur! Your brother is wise. Forget the girl. Find another…" M. Poligny tried his best to sound conciliatory. He wanted no part in this young man's crusade against the Ghost.

"There is no '_other_' for me!" cried Raoul. "Tell me what you know, or I may become desperate, Messieurs…"

The men blanched. These two men were their beloved, wealthy patrons. The one only supported the opera for the sport of the other. They looked at one another, each trying to think of a way to appease the younger without appearing to oppose the elder. When a certain housekeeper's notes came to mind, an expression of relieved joy smoothed M Poligny's face.

"We know almost nothing about the Phantom, Monsieur. We have never had any sway over him – quite the contrary." M. Poligny smiled a sly smile. "But there is one who knows about him and has had correspondence with him for years."

"Who, man? Tell me who! The danger to Christine's life increases as we delay."

"Antoinette Giry. The Housekeeper. She has carried messages from the Opera Ghost for years now. She almost speaks of him fondly. I believe he pays her."

"Giry! Of course! She spoke up for him…" Raoul's eyes narrowed. "She will tell me what I want to know this time, or she will be removed from her position – useful or not. Get her in here."

Half an hour later, Mme Giry entered the room beside M Debienne. They both looked quite unhappy, but Raoul was entirely unsympathetic. Christine was in danger and these people were more concerned for the perpetrator of the crime!

"Giry, tell me what you know about this creature, then give me the key to Christine's room. No advice, no discussion." Raoul towered over the short woman, his hands in tight fists by his sides.

Madame Giry glanced to the managers, who shrugged and nodded. "Well, Monsieur, I have never met with the Phantom, myself, but he has given me many letters to carry for him. He has been interested in Christine since she was a young child – since her father died, in fact. He taught her, guided her, and protected her when others…" here she stared accusatorily at the managers, "would have treated her less than kindly. She often complained that he made her work when other girls were playing, but she seems to be none the worse for it, I say. My Meg says that she has met with the Phantom before, for lessons. Beyond that, I know little else. If the Phantom _is_ a man, he must be a much older man, considering how long he has been haunting this place."

"How long, Giry?"

The curt use of her last name, as though she were a manservant, was beginning to annoy the good lady. She became as sharp toned as he was. "Ten or twelve years. Perhaps longer."

"Ten years? Ten years, and no one ever thought to capture the dastardly creature?"

Silence ensued. Raoul felt his face grow hot. His hands were aching from being clenched so tightly. Everyone was against him! Did no one care about Christine? They all behaved as though ghosts and hauntings and abductions were perfectly normally events. They acted as though Raoul deChagny's concerns were of no importance. He spun on Mme Giry and held out his hand.

"Give me the key."

"A lady's privacy…"

"_Giry, give me the key or I shall break the damned door down!" _Raoul's voice was very close to a shout.

Without another word, Mme. Giry handed him the key, turned, and left the room. Her sturdy shoes clacked angrily on the parquet floor.

Humbly, gently, M. Debienne murmured, "Monsieur, with all due respect, I believe you have just made yourself an enemy."

"I care not. If she values Christine so little, then I care nothing for her! Now, I need men. Since neither you nor my brother will do a thing, I will have to recruit them on my own. Good day, Messieurs, and God keep you. And if I find Christine has been harmed and you would do nothing to help me, may God help you."

In a weak imitation of his brother's masterful stride, Raoul flounced out of the room. He made his way to the backstage area, where brawny set crews were hanging flats from winches. They worked swiftly; there was a performance in less than a week. Raoul stood on the lip of the stage – the first time he ever mounted a stage.

"Gentlemen." he meant for the word to boom and echo around the theatre. He was amazed to discover that the cavernous room swallowed his voice almost entirely. How did the actors make themselves heard so well? Taking a deep breath, he tried again.

"Gentlemen! Please gather 'round!" The men slowly formed an impatient semi-circle around the prissily dressed noble. "The Diva has been abducted – by the Phantom of the Opera! The police will do nothing, the managers are useless. I saw the villain take her, and I will pay any man willing to join me in the search for her. So, who will help me?"

At the mention of the Phantom of the Opera, more than half the men present simply walked away. Of the small group remaining, most were looking at their fellows to see who would be insane enough to go hunting the Opera Ghost. They had seen Thomas's terror-stricken, swollen face; few of them believed he had committed suicide.

After several tense moments, two men stepped forward. Raoul smiled. "Come with me, gentlemen, and name your price."

Their names were Gerard and Jakob. They were young men with families who needed money for household necessities. Raoul knew he would be leading them into danger. To assuage his guilt, he gave each man two hundred francs, a revolver as fine as his own, and orders to shoot to kill. Feeling very brave and noble, he led them to the mirror in Christine Daae's private quarters.

He searched for the mechanism that allowed the glass to swing open, but quickly grew frustrated. Grabbing the fire iron from the hearth, he smashed the mirror which shattered in a spray of silvered glass. Behind it was the small chamber and beyond that yawned the inky darkness of Erik's secret passageway. Raoul was all set to charge forward, but a strong hand gripped his arm.

Gerard pulled him back gently. "Monsieur, beggin' your pardon, an' no harm meant, but don't you think we should get some lights?"

"Errrr…of course. Lanterns. Let us retrieve lanterns from the stables. Then we will hunt down this monster."

Soon afterwards, the three men crept down the corridor clutching lanterns in their left hands and cocked and loaded revolvers in their right.

In the bright lantern-light, Raoul easily found Erik's first line of defense; a thin piano wire strung ankle-high across the corridor. Feeling very clever, he leaned down and studied the mechanism. After a moment, he gingerly lifted a wire loop off its little eyelet hook. When nothing happened, he let his breath out in a long, quiet sigh. _This Ghost is not nearly so clever as he thinks he is, _his mind crowed triumphantly. _If tripwires are the best he can do, this will be simple. _

In truth, Raoul had only disabled the alarm system for this particular suite of passageways. In Erik's moral code, his lethal traps were justified by his complex warning system. If the alarm sounded, his plan was to run straightaway to that corridor, hopefully arriving before the foolish intruder could be maimed or killed by other traps in his system. The only intruders caught so far were ballet corps girls who were inevitably found clinging to the walls, crying for their mothers. He had frightened them back to the holes they'd come in by, then cemented those passages shut and replaced them with others. Ballet girls were hardly a threat.

Over the last few years, Erik had disabled many of his traps along this corridor, not wanting to risk that Christine might find her way in and be injured before he could reach her. He had not, however, left himself defenseless. The three men were walking smugly towards danger, having disabled the only alarm that would have allowed the Angel of Music to save them from their own foolishness.

Raoul led, flanked by his hired guard. He kept a look-out for other tripwires, but was much more absorbed in planning what he would do once he found the Ghost. He would hold his gun out and demand the release of his fair Lady. If the monster released Christine and she came to Raoul of her own free-will he might only take the villain prisoner to be tried for his crimes. _On the other hand_, he mused, _if he won't release her, or if it appears that he holds her in thrall by some spell …well, I will be forced to kill him. _As this morbid but pleasing decision settled in his mind, he heard Gerard say, "What…?" followed by a strange low grinding vibration. He spun just in time to watch the floor crumble beneath Gerard's feet.


	58. Daydreams and Prayers

The music had never come so easily before. He was a conduit, an open channel, through which the Spirit of Music flowed. He cursed his fingers for cramping and the pen for running out of ink, but he was full of a wild joy. He cursed his fingers, but they were doing what he asked of them, nailing down the essence. This was his greatest work; it was the product of years of toil and a hundred reworkings.

Had he allowed Christine to call _him_ the Angel of Music? _She_ was the Angel, his Muse, who inspired his greatest work with her mere presence. He looked up to see the outline of her shoulder and the spill of her muslin summer-weight skirts which pooled across the doorframe. He nearly went to her then and begged her to break her promise. In his mind, she was already breaking. In his mind, her voice rose heavenward, showering him with the faerie-dust of perfection. _Thank you, my angel_.

His Angel was perfection, his Angel was sweetness personified…his Angel was sitting on the floor! He had offered her no place to sit, no tea, no food, nothing to read. Erik dropped his pen and leapt to his feet.

"Christine!"

His voice rang out more loudly than intended. He saw her start and then scramble to her feet to stand in the doorway. Her brow was creased, her hands clasped in front of her, but she remained silent. _You've frightened her, you brute. _Erik chastised himself harshly. _Go to her. Comfort her. _

Christine's reverie was broken when Erik suddenly stopped his frenetic composing and barked her name. She scrambled to her feet, trying to think of what she might have done to anger him. Was it possible that he knew she had been in his house…and in his other room? She stood to face him, ready to defend her actions. He had left her alone, after all. If she was supposed to sit in a corner and translate Italian, she needed a corner in which to sit, and a book to translate. There appeared to be no anger in his body language, but his mask covered his expression. In her heart, she cursed the blank false-face he wore.

"Christine, please forgive my thoughtlessness." He offered his arm and led her towards his house. When he saw the door hanging open, he jerked them both to a stop. "Have you already been in my house?"

She nodded.

Erik's shoulders tensed. No one had violated his privacy since he had come to the Opera Populaire. Christine had been in his house. Had she seen his bedroom? He was sure his art-room door was locked, but his bedroom was not. He grabbed her shoulders and only just refrained from shaking her. "What did you see? Where did you go?" Christine shrugged out of his grip. She placed her hands lightly over her ears and shook her head, trying to indicate that he should stop yelling at her.

Erik sighed. The promise of silence had seemed like a good idea at the beginning; now it was becoming irksome. There were things in his house he did not want her to see, things that would frighten her. She didn't look frightened now, simply annoyed. She couldn't have seen too much. "Why were you sitting on the floor there, if you had already been in my parlor? Is that not where guests usually stay? In the parlor?"

Silence. An annoyed glare.

"Come along, then." He led her into the parlor and gestured towards the settee. "You must be hungry and rather bored, I suspect. Stay here, please, and do not poke your nose where it has no cause to go. Not everything down here is beautiful music and lantern light. There are dangerous and…and…unpleasant things. I am going to prepare tea and find some books with which you may amuse yourself until tomorrow. This may take a little while. Please _stay here. _And do not go into the building to the left. And do not try to use the boat – it's not as easy as it looks. Oh, and on your honor do not look at the score I am composing._" _With that final warning, he swept from the room.

Christine gave a brief, irritated nod after each command. It felt very much as though she were some pet dog. _Sit, Christine. Stay, Christine. _She sighed. When she could speak again, she would educate him on the treatment of guests – especially guests one has consigned to silence. Erik turned and left, his cloak swirling behind him. It occurred to her that she had never seen him without it, even when the weather was quite warm. _Why do you wear a cloak in the summer months, Erik? We know about the mask; what does the cloak hide? _

She tapped her foot impatiently. Erik would have to go up into the opera house to find components for a tea service. Hopefully, he would think to find dinner makings as well. The settee was much like hers, with wide, padded arms and a scrolled padded back. She leaned back against the arm and allowed herself to daydream. Erik had promised to tell her his story tomorrow. She tried to imagine what sort of tale he would tell. It would not be a happy story, of that she was certain. Sleep took her while she mulled the origins of her musical genius.

It took one full hour to gather all the necessities for a proper tea. Erik also picked books from the library and found some cold chicken and various vegetables for supper. He returned with a heavy basket over his arm, half expecting to hear Christine singing. If that were the case, he would have to take her home as per their agreement. All was silent. He carried the basket into the kitchen and set everything he would need before starting the fire in the old iron stove. When he was satisfied with the stovetop temperature, he set the kettle of lake-water on it to boil.

The tea set was so delicate he feared to touch its fragile cups and saucers. He worried that the lumps of sugar might crack the sugar bowl. Pale lantern light shone through the fine china almost as though it were spun glass. This tea set was reserved for impressing visiting dignitaries when they came to view performances. Erik only hoped it would please Christine. He arranged the fairy-like pieces on a silver tray and carried it gingerly into the parlor, where he nearly dropped it.

She was asleep, her cheek resting on one delicate hand. The lantern light spilled across her face, bathing her cream complexion with a soft luminescence. Just in time, Erik remembered he was holding the tray and set it carefully on the little coffee table. Stumbling on numb feet, he fell to his knees beside her. _So beautiful_, his mind gasped. He lifted his hand towards her face, longing to touch her but loath to wake her. His stomach knotted as he thought of what must happen the next day. Lightly, he allowed himself to touch her mussed curls.

Casting his voice low, he whispered, "Tomorrow, when you have learned what an unworthy thing I am, you will despise me, so tonight I will love you. I may be a monster, no more than a low creature – but I am _your_ creature. Christine, Christine…"

His voice, as quiet as it was, pierced the light veil of sleep. At the mention of her name, Christine floated towards wakefulness but did not alter her breathing or flutter her eyelids. At first she thought she was still in a dream and willed it to continue. Never had her Angel spoken such tender words to her. Gradually, she realized that she was awake, but the tender words did not stop. If she opened her eyes, though, they would. She continued to feign sleep.

He continued, his words taking on worshipful timbre, "Your name is the prayer I speak each morning. Yours is the voice of reason that guides me. You are the true Angel of Music; I am nothing. There is little I can offer you, but everything I have I will give without reservation. I can give you the music; I can give you my heart – pathetic lump of wasted flesh that it is. If I seem harsh, it is only my foolishness and my stupid pride. I know I am a monster…but please… Love me, Christine."

Just as she was sure she could bear no more, the teakettle shrieked. She heard Erik jump to his feet, and opened her eyes with a sleepy stretch. She sat up slowly and smiled at him. If there was tenderness there, it was hidden behind the mask. He gestured at the tea tray and cleared his throat.

His voice was as clear and calm as a deep lake. "I hope you slept well. There will be tea shortly, if you want it."

A nod.

"Christine, that was a silly thing to make you promise. Speak, if you have something to say."

A fervent shake of the head. Her smile grew sharp, her eyes glinted with sincerity and more than a hint of mischief. _I made a promise_, those eyes seemed to say, _and I will keep it._

"Whatever pleases you." Erik sighed and stomped off to the kitchen to bring the kettle.


	59. The Ghost's Foyer

Gerard plummeted ten feet to land on stone flagging. Upon impact, he felt his wrist snap and his shoulder give way. His head bounced on the cold, hard floor and he knew no more. Raoul and Jakob peered down into the pit trying to grasp what had just happened.

Jakob muttered, "Just a plain stage trap door…a theatre trick."

He was examining the familiar hinge and support system, shaking his head at the diabolical way the innocuous theatre trick had been adapted as a potentially deadly trap. The fiend had rigged the floor of the hallway to drop an unsuspecting victim into one of the unused storage rooms on the lower level.

"A theatre trick? H-how can we get him out?" stammered Raoul, nervously eyeing the unnatural position of his former companion's right arm and the small pool of dark liquid forming around his head. The scene was hellishly lit as the spilled lamp-oil from Gerard's broken lantern caught fire from its still-burning wick.

Fortunately for the unconscious man, his lantern had flown to the far side of the little cell and he had not been splashed with oil when it broke. The room was entirely of stone –someone had walled it closed – and would not catch in the flames. Unfortunately, he was close enough to the pool of oil to be in dire danger. The flames began to leap and dance, consuming the oil and searching for more fuel. The two men above could feel the fire's growing heat. Raoul turned away, not wanting to witness the stagehand's gruesome fate.

"What are you doing Monsieur!" screeched Jakob, horrified. "He'll be burnt to death!"

"There's nothing…"

Jakob threw himself flat on the floor and swung his legs over the side of the pit furthest from the flames. If he could only get down without injuring himself and drag Gerard to the safer side, they might both survive.

"Help me, Monsieur! Please!"

Raoul took the man's rough, callused hands and strained to lower him gently as far as possible before letting him safely drop the remaining couple of feet. Gerard's left pants leg was beginning to smolder. Jakob fairly threw Gerard's limp body into the far corner and smothered the burning leg under his own weight. When those flames were out, he crouched protectively over Gerard and looked up to where Raoul still stood, staring down in dazed horror.

Jakob leaned over and checked to make sure Gerard was still breathing. His sigh of relief was audible over the crackle of the flames. "He lives! We must get him to safety, Monsieur. He is badly injured."

Raoul measured the distance from the lip of the pit to Jakob's broad shoulders. If Jakob could lift Gerard that high, it was possible that the two might be able to muscle him out of the pit. Once out, they could carry him back to the gas lit comfort of the Opera house and call a doctor. That would take a good deal of time, possibly hours, and Christine was somewhere down in these inky depths, waiting for him to rescue her.

_Christine might be in danger_, he thought, _but Gerard will likely _die _without help. _Jakob was a strong man; he had been tossing sandbags and moving huge pieces of scenery for years. If the two of them could get Gerard out of the pit, Jakob might be able to carry him to safety on his own. This would leave Raoul to rescue Christine – and to face the Phantom – alone. He pondered this for a moment, then lay flat, holding out his hands. "Hoist him up, Jakob."

Together, they pushed and pulled the unconscious man to safety. Jakob used a strip from his shirt to bind Gerard's bleeding head. The injury looked serious, but Raoul thought he would survive with a doctor's care. _And if he dies that is one more death on this kidnapper's conscience, if he has one, _thought Raoul angrily.

"Can you carry him back yourself, Jakob? I must go on. Christine is in danger." Raoul hoped the answer would be in the affirmative. If not, he would leave the two to fend for themselves and come back for them later. Christine's safety was more important.

"I believe so, Monsieur." Raoul helped Jakob drape the limp, broken, burned man over his strong shoulders.

"Fare well then, and good luck. Adieu." Raoul tossed his coat into the pit and doused his lantern. The passageway would be clearly lit for a while with light from the conflagration in the pit. There was no need to waste lamp oil. He had gone but a few strides when Jakob called after him.

"Monsieur, _you_ fare well. I will pray and light a candle in hope of your return." Jakob was not at all unhappy to be headed back home rather than forward into the Opera Ghost's lair.

Raoul bowed to him and continued down the passageway. He no longer allowed himself to be distracted by thoughts of Christine or of his opponent. The whole of his concentration was on the floor, searching for other traps. Were he to fall victim now, it was unlikely his body would be found until there was nothing left but bones and a rusted revolver. That thought brought a clammy sweat out on Raoul's palms and cheeks. His progress slowed to a creep.

Vaguely, Raoul wondered how much time had passed. The passages went on and on. There were numerous twists and turns, but the floor continually sloped downward. He prayed he had not taken a wrong turn, or missed a turn he should have taken. He felt sure that night had fallen; he was tired and famished, having missed tea and supper. Raoul relit his lantern, aware that there was only a few hours' worth of oil left.

Just as he was about to give up, Raoul turned a corner to see the first wall in the Opera Ghost's labyrinth. The labyrinth was the foyer to Erik's home. It was softly lit by the glow from the lake lanterns. Raoul extinguished his own lantern with a relieved sigh. There had been only a drop of oil left. He stared at the spectacle for a moment, took a deep breath and started walking, keeping his left hand on one wall. He thought he remembered reading once that that was the way to solve a labyrinth. He only hoped his memory was correct. The labyrinth twisted and turned tediously but the tired aristocrat doggedly carried on.

Raoul squinted. Was there something up ahead? Something that glimmered white in the lantern light? Raoul approached it cautiously until he could make out what the object was. It was a plain, undecorated white mask that 'someone' had dropped and carelessly left behind.

If Raoul had had a better understanding of the builder's mindset, he would never have touched the thing. As it was, his curiosity led him to pick it up. The mask was snagged on a little jag of stone, but one sharp tug freed it. Raoul realized his mistake only when he heard a tiny _snap_ and a _whoosh._ He looked up in time to see the massive sandbag flying towards him. He had time to exclaim, "Theatre tricks!" before the bag crashed into him, knocking him unconscious and sending him flying.


	60. How Dare She

**As always, this particular chapter is accompanied by a request that my readers continue reading…**

While Christine sipped tea and nibbled on soft bread and whipped butter with cinnamon, Erik sat at his organ trying to figure out what to do with her overnight. When she was begging him with sweet words and pleading eyes to bring her to his home, he had not been able to clear his foggy mind long enough to realize that he had no bed for her to sleep in, no cloth with which she might wash her face, and many secrets still to hide. Currently, he was wrestling with the lack of a bed. _I shall have to take her back to her rooms, _he thought gloomily. He didn't want to see the look of hurt in her eyes when he led her to the boat…

The boat! Erik raced out to the dock and eyed the boat, measuring it against his memory of her height. When they embraced, he remembered with a pleasant shiver, her head rested against his lapel. She was small enough to fit, if he removed the seat. Erik pillaged the laundry-rooms and linen closets of the lower levels and filled the boat's floor with quilts and down comforters. When finished, it would make a more than passable bed. He dragged the heavy wooden vessel to shore.

She would look charming, nestled in the bottom of the boat – a living Lady of Shalott. Now, where could he put the makeshift bed to ensure the lady's privacy while she slept? There was not enough space in his little house. It was built for only one. Sighing, he pushed and pulled until the boat-bed was lodged in his music room, its rounded bottom steadied by the heavy oak chairs. It would simply have to do.

Sweat damped his shirt and rolled under his mask. After checking to ensure that he was unobserved, he removed his mask just long enough to pat his face dry with the hem of his cloak. Her presence might inspire his music, but it also kept him wrapped in cloak, hat and mask. She might have accepted his face, but he had not.

_After tomorrow, it won't matter. _Erik bent to his composition again, glad that dinner would take little preparation. He had believed that her silence would give him time to concentrate on his work. Instead, he found himself busy fetching and carrying to make her comfortable. And now that the boat was a bed, they were both essentially island-bound. Erik sighed again and rubbed his aching eyes.

Christine finished her afternoon tea and wandered out to the lake. She sat watching the ripples reflect the glow from above. At first, it had seemed like a wonderful idea to have Erik carry her off to his subterranean home. It felt so much like being rescued from the stultifying swamp of conventional society. Now, she was sitting here with nothing to do, waiting for Erik to bring her books or dinner. If only she were free to sing, the time between now and tomorrow afternoon would pass much more quickly.

She noticed that the boat was gone. Erik was still here; she could hear him laboring over something in the music room. Christine decided to watch him work. She peeked around the doorframe, hoping not to disturb the composer from his work. When her eyes fell on the lavishly draped boat, a smile curved her lips and a little giggle rose in her throat. He was building a bed for her – she had not even thought of where she would sleep overnight.

Erik looked up and Christine quickly swallowed both the smile and the laugh. He did not know a pleased smile from a mocking one or an amazed laugh from a cruel one. She could tell by the wounded look in his eyes (quickly passing into anger) that he did not understand her intentions…and she had no way tell him otherwise.

The rest of the day passed slowly for both of them. After dinner, Erik bowed stiffly to Christine. "If you wish to sleep, I have _done my best_ to make a comfortable bed for you. My composing suite is at your disposal; I will not disturb you there. Goodnight, Mademoiselle." His tone indicated that he had not yet decided to forgive her for her laughter earlier.

Christine retired to her "room" shortly after dinner, wishing only that she could explain and set his mind at ease. Curious as ever, she sifted through the sheet music scattered over the floor, table, and organ. The piece he had been working on was not here. She organized the rest of the music according to which pieces sounded best in her head. Tomorrow she would ask him to play some of them for her. Finally, fatigue overwhelmed her. The beautiful little boat-bed turned out to be quite comfortable.

Over and over, Erik replayed Christine's little smile in his mind. Was she laughing at him? At the bed he had made for her? He had torn the seat from the boat, just for her. It would have to be carefully replaced and all the linens would have to be returned. Pulling the boat from the lake and dragging it into the composing room was no small feat, either. How _dare_ she laugh? Did she expect him to carry a feather mattress and headboard down here for her?

Erik removed his cloak, hat, and mask and settled into the coffin he used for a bed. This was less a dramatic gesture and more a practical one. Erik knew that he was likely to live out his life alone. There would be no one to care for him should he fall ill, and no one to give him a decent burial when he died. In his twentieth year, he had nearly died of pneumonia. Afterwards, he developed a morbid fear of dying and leaving his horrid corpse lying about for some servant or workman to find. That same year he had begun sleeping in the coffin.

How would Christine have reacted if he had offered her his coffin for the night? No, it would never do. So he had done the best he could with what he had on hand. And she had laughed. Erik tossed and turned, unable to sleep. After a while, he gave up on sleep and climbed out of the coffin. He could not sleep with such thoughts swirling in an unquiet mind. The lake beckoned, with its softly rippling multi-colored lights. It was here that Erik often found his peace, beside the dark lake waters. He reclined and watched the reflections dance, but the thoughts wouldn't let him be. She had laughed at him. If she laughed at that, how could he expect her not to laugh at his pathetic history?

Several hours later he sprang to his feet, determined to have this done. He ran into the composition room. Christine was already awake, sitting at the organ, brushing her fingers over the keys. Erik walked up behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder, gently turning her until she faced him fully. There was something strange about her face, it seemed unfocused or hazy – perhaps one of the lanterns was smoking with low quality oil. It was unimportant.

"Christine, sit with me. I am going to tell you everything. And you are freed from your vow of silence. I simply can wait no longer." Erik felt that his voice was coming from a great distance.

Christine took her place at the oaken table with her most studious expression firmly in place. It was the same expression she wore when studying a particularly difficult language lesson or memorizing a difficult aria. Erik savored it for a moment before beginning to speak.

In a torrent of misery, he told her everything. He described his rejection at birth, his few precious years with Hannah, and his mother's ultimate betrayal. When he spoke of the hundred francs changing hands, he chanced to look up from the tabletop. Christine's face had twisted into an expression of disgust. His breath caught in his throat.

She stood slowly and walked towards the doorway. At the last moment she spun and faced him.

"You have done nothing but lie to me since the first moment you spoke to me. First you were an Angel, then you were the Opera Ghost. After that I _thought_ you were a man, but now you are telling me that you are… _nothing._ You are less than nothing! You're a freak! A thing that dragged itself in off the streets!" Her cruel words echoed around the soundshells. She turned and ran.

Erik jumped up to pursue her, but the table was in his way, and he couldn't seem to maneuver in the suddenly tiny space. By the time he forced his way out the door, panting with rage and hate and sorrow, she was gone.


	61. Duet

Erik ran towards the lake, his feet lightly floating over the stone flagging. From the shore he could see the little boat floating towards him from the center of the lake. When it bumped against the dock, he peered over the edge at Christine who lay on the bed he had made for her, quiet and still as death. Lying in state in her little boat, her lovely face gleaming and dead pale, like the Lady of Shallott.

"Christine?" She did not stir, did not answer. "Please wake, Christine…"

Her lips were blue, her chest did not rise. Her chest…there was blood…she'd been shot! Screams tore themselves from Erik's throat, her name echoed in his ears. He could not stop calling her name, as though he could wake her up. Wake up…

And then the corpse moved its blue lips and spoke,

"Erik. My Angel. It's alright, I am here."

Erik's eyes snapped open. At first he thought her dead face hovered over him, but then his sense of place and time returned to him. He was still in his coffin. Christine, very much alive, was bending over him. She was holding his hand in both of hers and patting it, calling his name repeatedly, trying to wake him from his nightmare. The lantern that normally hung over the organ lit the black room. Relief stole the strength from Erik's limbs. He could not even be embarrassed that she had seen him in the coffin. Her expression was worried, not twisted in contempt. She had not disappeared. Most importantly, she was not dead. He would rather she spat in his face and called him a monster a thousand times than see her still, pale, dead face.

Erik slowly sat up, trying desperately to shake off the chilling effects of the dream. Christine stopped patting his hand, but did not let go. He was so cold! She wrapped his long thin hand in both of hers, gently chafing it to warm it.

"You were screaming in your sleep. You worried me." Her voice was still pitched low, soothing.

"I'm sorry I woke you." Erik stood, drawing her up with him. He allowed himself to caress her creased brow in an attempt to smooth away the worried look. Quickly, he donned his mask and cloak, silently marveling that she could look directly at him with such gentle concern and even hold his hand while his cursed face was visible. That she could tolerate it was no reason to force her to look upon it. Now he needed to get her out of his bedroom and away from his coffin.

He scooped up the lantern and very gently escorted Christine from the room. He led her to the kitchen where he pulled bread and butter from the cabinets. He could tell from the look in her eye that neither of them would get any more sleep this night. She looked worried, yes, but she also looked frightened – and the familiar curiosity underlay both worry and fear.

Christine watched Erik go through the mundanities of slicing and serving bread and butter. How could he behave so normally? He had just screamed her awake while sleeping in a _coffin, _and now he was serving bread and butter – and building a fire in the stove to put the kettle on. He had put on his mask and cloak the way some gentlemen would put on their shoes of a morning. She'd felt a twinge of regret mingled with the reflexive relief as he hid himself beneath papier-mâché and sable. His face was a horror, but it was becoming a beloved horror. At least he was not hustling her back to her apartment for breaking her promise of silence.

They sat, silently munching bread. Erik studied Christine while Christine immersed herself in the complexities of the leaf-and-rose pattern of the china saucer. Her silence lasted while he boiled water and steeped the tea. She did not look up or speak until he poured her cup and calmly asked if she would care for sugar or cream.

"What happened in your nightmare?" Christine stirred her tea, watching the clouds of cream gradually turn the black liquid a pale brown.

"It was nothing." _Don't ask me, Christine. Please. _

"You were screaming my name. You were calling for me." She would not look at him. The image of his body lying in a coffin assaulted her memory.

"I am sorry I disturbed you. I am unaccustomed to overnight guests."

"Why do you sleep in a coffin?" Christine never changed her tone of voice, never looked up.

Erik sat back in his seat. She would give him no peace until he satisfied her curiosity. Sunlight was filtering through the grate, bouncing off the water; faint natural light graced the complex architecture which supported the immense opera house. There were chores to be done before the day could begin. She would just have to amuse herself for a couple of hours.

"You could not possibly under…" Her brow creased, her mouth tightened – clearly, he was heading down a dangerous path. Her curiosity was insatiable; she would not be put off or dismissed. "I see that delaying until this evening is useless. I promised you my story, as wretched a thing as it is, and I will fulfill my promise. Allow me time to douse and fill the lanterns and take care of a few other necessities. Since you have broken your silence at last," here he glared at her with mock-severity, "you may go to the organ and warm up that delightful instrument of yours. I will join you as soon as I may."

Christine heard the unspoken command. _Don't wander around. _She made use of the water-closet and freshened up with the water in the basin. Once she felt more herself, she went to the organ and sat down, instantly regretting declining the chapel organist's invitation for lessons. Straightening, she began to run through her breathing exercises, lip trills, consonant and vowel production. She ran through her scales absentmindedly, before launching into the pitch exercises, which were her favorites. Pitch exercises allowed her to free her voice and her imagination. She sang wordlessly for the sheer joy of producing beautiful sound.

Erik went about his work with an Angel's voice in his ears. He hummed softly, harmonizing with her scales, singing counterpoint to her wild song. The sound of their blended voices started a fire within him. The feelings that stirred now were not innocent or pure. He remembered her lips on his, the feel of her weight in his arms, the look in her eyes when she had forced him to accept her declaration of love against his better judgement. Erik wanted to see that look again, feel her body against his, her _mouth_ against his. _Disgusting, _he thought, _where is your shame? _He willed himself to think only of her voice and the task of filling the few remaining lamps.

After the lamps were filled, he went in search of lunch. His story would take quite some time to tell; it would not do to disappoint _and_ starve her. Christine's voice stayed with him, even as he ascended into the Opera Populaire. Had his mind not been hazy with desire, he would have seen the prone body of a young man lying against a dead end at the beginning of the labyrinth. As it was, he could think of nothing but Christine and so missed Raoul entirely.

When he returned from foraging and put his basket in the kitchen, better than two hours had passed. Christine was silent; it was unwise to overuse one's voice. He rounded the corner and felt his mouth go dry. For a moment, reality and his nightmare meshed. She was sitting at the organ, absentmindedly running her fingers over the keys. Unlike his dream, she heard the scrape of his shoe on the stone and turned to face him, smiling.

"I thought you would never come back." She left the piano bench to shyly take his hands in hers. "Have you finished your tasks?"

Erik lifted her right hand and kissed it. "I am at your service entirely, Mademoiselle."

"Is that so, Monsieur? Then I believe you have a promise to fulfill."

Erik's smile melted away. His eyes darkened with a sorrow Christine could not fathom. "Are you sure you would not rather know me only as your Angel of Music?"

"I know you as Erik. Nothing you tell me could change that."

"Do not be so sure of that. I've seen many a socialite fall from grace when a dubious history is revealed."

Incredibly, Christine laughed. "You are hardly a socialite…"

"No. I suppose not. Before I begin, would you perform a great kindness and sing with me?"

"It would be an honor. What would you like to sing?"

"Something new." Erik looked at the neatly arranged stack of scores. His favorite was on top. "I see you've had a look at my work. Did you read through '_Le Prisonnier'_?"

"I did. That is why it is on top of the stack. It is powerful; if you had not suggested it, I would have."

Erik opened a valve and stoked the little steam engine that pumped air into the bellows. Christine reflected that in the chapel an altar boy worked the pumps. _Erik must be terribly clever, _she thought, _how long did it take him to build such a cunning device? _Once the air was flowing nicely, Erik sat down and set the stops. He was moving slowly, not wanting this sweet interlude to end. Finally he struck the first chord of the aria.

"You have sung for me, Christine. Now, sing with me…" His fingers touched the keys tenderly; the haunting strains of his newest work filled the room. Erik's voice rose, weaving through the melody, low, soft, rich and full. Since the night of her father's funeral, Christine had had few opportunities to hear Erik sing. Never since then had she heard him sing to perform, to please. She was a mere untaught child at the time, and he was younger. His voice had matured. It was melted buttered toffee, it was liquid chocolate, it was silk on bare skin…it was in her mind, spreading a languid heat through her. Christine wavered on the verge of a swoon. Only the desire to hit her cue kept her from melting onto the bench next to him.

He sang, and the words came home to her. This was not some faceless, long dead composer. This was living, breathing art unfiltered by the stilted interpretation of some disconnected intermediary. She heard her Angel's voice soar, singing the lines that signaled her character's cue:

"…c_hained to steel and stone_

_this prisoner entreats thy mercy,_

_throws himself on thy uncertain mercy…"_

Christine sipped a breath, sung back in dulcet tones;

"_Pitiful creature!_

_The heavens have heard_

_your wretched cries_

_and sent an angel,_

_dark angel,_

_to aid you."_

Then the duet, their voices blending like fiery sun and soft breeze;

Prisoner: "_Dark Angel, I welcome thee,"_

Dark Angel: "_Only one mercy can I grant,"_

Prisoner: "_loose me from the earthly coil."_

Dark Angel: "_the blessed gift of eternal sleep."_

As the last notes reverberated and faded, Christine sat beside Erik and wrapped her arm through his. Only months before, he would have turned rigid with fear at her gentle touch. In the wake of their song, he welcomed her touch and even took her hand. For a long, sacred moment, neither moved nor spoke.


	62. Wounded

Raoul dared not open his eyes. He was sure every bone in his body was pulverized. His head thumped infernally. Once, as a teenager, he had been kicked by a horse. This reminded him very much of that time – only this felt like a _much_ larger horse. First, he wiggled his toes. Good. Nothing there was broken. He then tried to bend his knees. His back screamed, his chest moaned, something in his neck caught, and he temporarily gave up the effort.

_I'm badly hurt, lost, and alone, _he thought, _I hope Christine is faring better._

Raoul opened his eyes. It was dark, but over the wall he soft the soft glow of lights. _I must be near. _The lights swam and danced making him close his eyes again. Grimacing. he raised a tentative hand and felt his head. There was a respectable goose-egg where he had crashed into the stone wall. More alarming was the thundering pain in his ribs when he moved the arm. _Broken? _he wondered.

The spinning sensation ebbed slowly. When he opened his eyes again the light stayed still. He pushed himself to a sitting position, doing his level best not to faint from the pain. There was one broken rib, for certain; he could feel it grinding under his skin. His back was wrenched, but he could still move. His neck was badly damaged. He remembered the way his head suddenly snapped forward when the sandbag slammed the breath from his lungs.

_Sprained, maybe, _he thought. _I've never even _heard_ of a sprained neck before. _When he was sitting fully he became aware of a strange full feeling in his stomach. Gingerly he ran his hand over his abdomen, which had taken the full force of the blow. It was distended and swollen. Raoul did not want to imagine what was causing such strange swelling.

"Erik, you kidnapper, you murderer…you monster." He growled low in his throat. "I am going to kill you for stealing her. But I would have been kind. A bullet through the heart. Fast, clean. But for what you have done to _me, _I am going to make you suffer." _Low in the abdomen, _he thought viciously, _a shot in the belly. The most painful death…_

Thoughts of his enemy's agonizing death to come gave Raoul the strength to stand slowly, slowly. He used the wall for support as well as guidance. He checked his revolver, enjoyed its weight, and the deadly grind and click as he cocked it.

"I'm close now, it's not far now…" Raoul panted from time to time, as the winding labyrinth walls led him back and forth in a maddening snake-walk. This maze was not original to the building. It was _his _work. It revealed the twisted mind of the builder. Raoul's hatred boiled higher. Even if Christine got away from the masked man, she'd probably faint from terror in this dreadful maze. _Diabolical fiend! _

Thoughts of Christine flooded his mind, spurring him on. She was so sweet, so serious. Mme. Giry said that she had grown up without a mother's guidance. That might explain her unfeminine interest in books and her insistence on public performances. Perhaps her excessive study had helped to drive her mad, so that she would fall under the sway of her 'teacher'. Raoul did not put such a nefarious plan one inch beneath the Ghost.

His maiden aunt could come stay with them for a while after their marriage to teach Christine how to be a proper wife and Lady. It would be sweet to watch her learn the delicate arts of cross-stitch and beading. Raoul wondered how Christine would look in a proper corset. She never wore one because of her singing, but if she were no longer constantly rehearsing and performing, she could begin to dress fashionably. Her waist was already small. He imagined encircling it with his hands. Yes, if only she could settle down and lighten her mood a little, she would make an adorable wife. His brother would never marry. Someday he would be the Vicompte and she would be his Lady. Hopefully, she would bear him many sons and daughters to carry on the family name.

Raoul's thoughts stuck to this theme as he wandered. To lose his fantasies for the briefest of moments would be to feel the terror, the welling panic. If that happened, he would be doomed. The fear would paralyze him and drive him insane in the weird, low light and the echoing corridors of the labyrinth.

Three hours later, Raoul stepped from the labyrinth onto the stone lakeshore. Before him lay an expanse of black water. He was an excellent swimmer under normal circumstances, but at this moment he was daunted. How could anyone as injured as he swim this much water? He had no way of knowing that a half starved, terribly wounded boy had done precisely that, less than twenty years before.

While he stood and pondered the feat that lay before him, he took time to admire the lights and silks. _Pretty, _he decided, _pretty decorations to deceive a guileless young girl. Pretty decorations to mask a killer's heart. _

Raoul stood by the edge of the water, resting. He lifted his gun and sighted down the barrel. Great care would have to be taken to avoid wetting the firing mechanism as he swam the lake. With trepidation, he put his foot in the water. Fortunately, it was summer; the water flowing through the grate was sun-warmed and pleasant. With a deep breath and prayer to the Virgin Mary, he waded out and began to swim.


	63. His Story

"It's about Death, isn't it." Christine's whisper broke the silence.

"It's about freedom. It's about finally being free from…from a prison too wretched…" She looked at him knowingly, and Erik stopped trying to justify the lyrics. "Death can be a mercy, Christine. Sometimes it's the only way to end suffering…"

"And sometimes it is not." She stood and looked down at him. "Come, Erik. No more waiting. Tell me your story."

Erik nodded. It was indeed time to tell her. Sighing in resignation, he stood and guided her to the oak table. "Please, do sit."

Christine sat down in the large, comfortable chair Erik used when he was composing. Erik drew up the piano bench and sat across from her, putting more than a yard of air and oak between them. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper that was nearly black with cramped writing.

"Christine, please do your utmost to just listen. I know that is not your forte, but…" Erik forced himself to look her in the eye. "this will be difficult enough, without any commentary. Before I begin, please do a favor for me. Take out that beautiful ring the Vicompte's little brother gave you. Place it on the table where you can see it. I want you to think of the difference between the paradise he has offered you, and what you would be condemned to if...if you insist on loving me."

Christine swallowed hard and nodded her assent. She dug the ring out of her reticule and placed it on the table. It reflected the lantern light beautifully. She looked up at Erik. His eyes were more sunken than usual. He looked as though he were about to confess evil deeds, not just tell the story of his childhood.

"I was born to the Duchess de Valliere about twenty-five years ago. According to…"

"That would make you…" Christine couldn't contain herself.

"_Nothing,"_ Erik's reply was louder and sharper than he intended. "Please do _try_ to restrain yourself. It makes me _nothing_. Officially, I died shortly after birth. She did not even name me. Hannah did that."

"Hannah was the nursemaid my mother hired to keep me out of sight." Sarcasm edged his voice. "I suppose I should be grateful I was not simply killed. Hannah was old and nearly blind. She cared for me very kindly. If she did not love me, she at least felt pity. She showed me compassion."

He paused. This was more difficult than the writing had been. Then, his shameful tale passed no further than his own eyes. That another was listening made him feel sick with embarrassment.

"She did _not _show me my face. She kept mirrors far from me. Kindly old woman. She told me that I looked "different" from other people, but that was all. It was my mother who made sure I knew what a horror I was…and am. When I was three or four, she gave me my first mask. I was to wear it at all times, to avoid frightening the servants." He uttered a low, lost chuckle. "The funny thing is that no servant would come into 'our' wing of the house. I was a demon to them. Hannah laughed at them. She taught me…oh…everything. She taught me to read and write. She taught me to sing. Her voice was old and cracked, but it was a good voice, or maybe I only remember it as good. She said that an Angel must have gotten stuck in my throat. We lived together for seven years. She fell ill, and died…"

Christine sat motionless on her side of the table. She had tried to imagine what sorts of stories he might tell, but she never imagined something so terribly painful as this. Her instinct was to run to him and wrap her arms around him, but he had placed her on the far side of the table for a reason. He did not want her there. She held the reigns on her instinct and stayed still.

"She died naturally. I don't think there was too much pain. I cared for her the best way I could, but I was only a child. I left 'our' wing of the house searching for my mother; there was no one else to take care of me. I found her in our library, reading a romance novel… I remember that she looked very beautiful to me then. She couldn't have been much older than I am now. I went to her, took off my mask and asked for a kiss," that horrible chuckle floated up from his chest again.

"Can you imagine, Christine? Thinking that anyone would want to kiss a thing like me. I still do not understand how you compelled yourself to commit the act. How stupid I was! She slapped me down to the floor; a rightful punishment for my affront to her delicate sensibilities..."

"No…" murmured Christine.

Erik continued, ignoring the interruption. "Soon afterwards she took me on an outing." Beneath his mask, his face was set in a bitter grimace. "To the fair. Doesn't that sound nice, my Angel? Doesn't that sound motherly?"

Christine could only shake her head. It did sound nice, but the tone of his voice hinted at terrible things to come.

"She took me to the fair. To a special tent at the very back of the grounds. Can you guess?" His eyes flicked up, taking in her pale, sick expression. "Shall I go on? Christine, my dear, you do not look well at all. A glass of water, perhaps? Some bread?"

She did not _feel _well at all, but her malaise was nothing a sip of water could fix. Yes, she could guess what tent it was. She slid her hand across the tabletop, hoping that Erik would take it. He did not.

He was watching her with an expression she could only associate with an injured farm animal awaiting the axe. "Go on, Erik."

Erik stared at her hand. Was she trying to offer comfort? He was undeserving of her pity. He pressed on.

"For the hefty sum of one hundred francs, she sold me. The master of that tent took my fine clothes and the silk mask my mother made me wear. Rags and a burlap sack were good enough for the likes of me. He put me in a cage. He was kind - there was straw on the floor, and a bucket for…" Erik stopped and considered his audience, "but I cannot say such a thing. It would offend you." He stopped to retrain his thoughts. "The fair workers came to gawk at me, but I frightened them…just like the servants, they saw the monster in me. They called me 'The Devil's Child', and that became the name that hung over my…exhibit. I was popular, Christine."

He looked up at her with a twisted smile. "Popular. The people _flocked_ to see me. They paid good money to see the face that I so carefully hide. I tried not to see them, but they were always there. Soon, I learned to _want_ to see them. You see, if too few people came, if I didn't make enough money, Herroux would become…angry. Mostly he only used his fists and boots, but sometimes he used the whip."

Christine lost her struggle. A short, harsh sob escaped her. She stood and would have run to him, but he lifted a hand. "Sit, Christine. _You _asked to hear it, and now you must listen. In the midst of all this, there were two things that kept me sane. The first was music. Music has always been my saving grace. Music..." He seemed to be rolling the word in his mouth like a fine wine, savoring its flavor. "When I was alone, when no one was jeering or beating or screaming, I could sing. When the throngs pressed on me, I could compose in my mind."

"The second thing was a girl. She was not pretty, even a little bit. She could not sing. In compensation for her shortcomings, she had the undeniable merit of courage: she was unafraid of me." He laughed, a more genuine sound. "Her name was Leslie. She came at night to brought me a blanket and some pastries. Somehow, she convinced Herroux to let me keep the blanket. Without her, I would never have survived the first winter. I don't know which would have killed me first: the cold or the starvation. I was very careful never to show her my face. She was my first and only friend. She reminded me how to be human, I think."

Erik mulled the many kindnesses Leslie had shown him. He heard her parting words to him and smiled. The smile was short-lived. He returned to his story. He could not bear to look at Christine's face anymore. She looked as though she would break into tears or vomit any moment. _I disgust her, as well I should._

"She also took care of me when…" He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This was the part he'd glossed over in his original story. This was the part that his own brain struggled not to remember. "She took care of me when things…got worse. You would still have worn swaddling clothes, I think, during the tight times. People no longer came to the fair. They had no money for such frivolous entertainment. This meant that there was less money after shows. herroux was…not pleased. Leslie treated my wounds whenever she could. The scarring…but that is unimportant. In the third year of my captivity, Leslie was there, visiting me. We were pretending to celebrate my birthday. I was trying to teach her to sing – a hopeless endeavor. Herroux overheard us. He was drunk and angry and frustrated by the meager 'take' from that day's crowds. When he heard my singing, he went mad."

"He beat and whipped me. What I did was evil, Christine, but I _couldn't_ die like that that. I don't remember exactly how it happened, but I…" the flow of words stopped. There was no reason she should ever hear a thing like this. She was trembling like an aspen leaf in a high wind; tears were coursing down her face and dripping into her lap. He pulled his clean handkerchief out and handed it to her. He couldn't imagine what she was weeping over; Herroux's murder, perhaps?

"Somehow I wrapped the whip around his fat neck. Somehow, I strangled him. You see, Christine? Do you see now? I am a murderer _and_ a freak. Look at that sparkling ring. It is beautiful and pure, like you, Angel, like you. That is what the boy has offered you. Hadn't you better take it?"

Christine only stared at the table. Emotions of an intensity she never imagined existed paralyzed her in their burning grasp. She hated Herroux and Erik's mother with a fiery passion. If Erik had not killed the man, she would have searched for him and killed him herself. She loved the girl, Leslie, as she loved Meg - though she'd never met her. But Erik, her poor Erik…what did she feel for him now?

Raoul's offer of comfort and safety glimmered on the table bare inches from her trembling fingers. Raoul, who had never known a moment of fear or discomfort in his life, who had never suffered. Raoul, who could give her a lifetime of luxury and safety.

"I see you have nothing to say yet. Very well." Erik continued. "Though I killed him, he knocked me unconscious. I woke in Leslie's wagon. She and her mother saved me and tended my wounds to the best of their ability. Do you see how Death can be a mercy, sometimes? had I died, it would have been over. No more suffering. But, no, time after time, when I should have been dead I keep living, useless and worthless. Of course, Leslie and her mother couldn't keep me. I was a murderer! Leslie brought me to the river that runs through the gate and helped me in. That is how I came to the Opera Populaire."

"What heaven did I discover here? Music, Christine! Sweet, wonderful Music!" He was smiling a large, joyous smile. "It sustained me. I stole what I needed to survive. I still do…add that to the noble titles I wear: _freak, murderer,_ _thief_. I began work on my home. I haunted this place, frightening away the worst of the lot. There were terrible actors and worse musicians here, then. Carlotta truly was the best the Opera House had to offer. Years passed, each blended into the next. I learned to play, to sing… I pursued every branch of knowledge the library could offer. I built all this." Erik gestured dismissively out over his demesnes. "Nothing of interest happened until, one blessed afternoon, the managers were hearing the audition of a poor, unknown violinist from some country far to the north. I expected very little, but as I had little else to do, I stayed to listen."

Christine lifted her eyes, but he would not meet them.

"Your father was the most talented violinist I had ever…have ever…heard. He was a genius, Christine. His performance was like something out of my dreams. I had just decided to do everything I could to smooth his way into my opera house, when my entire world froze around me. Do you know what happened, Christine? An Angel, straight from heaven, started singing. At first I didn't believe the sound came from a human throat. It was holy…holy. Oh, Christine! Your voice, untaught and immature, took possession of me. You were but seven or eight years old, but I was your servant from that moment. So selfish! I only thought of your voice, what an extraordinary instrument it was and what earth-shaking potential it had. I wanted it for my music. So selfish…" the low, hypnotic voice trailed off for a moment. "I admit that I followed you and your father. I wanted to be with you. I wanted to be _his son_. You think your little apartment drab – to me it seemed a mansion, a palace! To be in such a place, with so much love…you do not know what it is to sit in the cold, alone, and watch warmth and love through a pane of glass. You do not know and you never shall."

She knew what happened next. The story would soon be over. Christine felt older and strangely world-weary, but she also felt wiser. When Erik was done, she had a plan – if only he would allow her to come to him. The Angel of Music's eyes were on her.

"You are still here. Miraculous. I applaud your constancy. Your father passed away, leaving you bereft. I came to you, to comfort you and offer my services as your teacher. I suppose you know the rest." He stood and walked to the pipe organ. He touched the pipes fondly, then turned back to face her, as a condemned man might face a firing squad. "That is why it is better I wear the mask. Without it, I am the Devil's Child: weak, ugly, a contemptible worm. With it, I am the Phantom of the Opera and the Angel of Music. That is my story; judge me as you will."


	64. The Last Barrier

Christine gathered her courage. Judge him, indeed! She picked up Raoul's ring, rose from the table, and smoothed her skirts before walking sedately to stand before him. With one smooth motion, she twisted and threw the glittering thing out the door. They listened to it ring against the stone before it skidded into the lake.

When she turned back and her eyes met his, he took an involuntary step back. They shone with the same fierce love he felt for her. She still loved him, even now. And she was…touching him, holding him tightly. It was such a strange, safe feeling to be held. It was as though he were something precious to her. Erik felt the moisture of her tears through his dress shirt – the tears were not for Herroux, they were for him. In a staggering moment of clarity, Erik realized that she did not blame him for his past, that no story he could tell would sway her.

It was not enough, apparently, for her to wrap her arms around him. Before he had regained his equilibrium, her hands were busy taking off his hat. His mask. His cloak. Her fingers were on the buttons of his shirt, before he forced himself back to motion.

Instead of tearing her hands away from his shirt, Erik pressed them flat against his chest. "Have you heard a word I said Christine? I'm a monster inside and out. You have the opportunity to live an enviable life amidst comfort and luxury…"

"I'd prefer death to the silken bonds of that 'enviable life.' Forget Raoul, Erik." Christine gently freed one of her hands and lightly traced the bony ridge of his brow. "I have."

She was studying his face with such loving intensity that he was drawn helplessly into her gaze; her eyes, her voice – he was being mesmerized. "Once before, I asked your permission to do as I pleased with impunity. You granted it then, will you grant it now?"

"My angel, what is it you want?"

"I want to see the scars from your childhood." It was a direct, flat statement. "I want to see them and better understand what you survived."

"Why?" Erik could not look at her. He focused his eyes on the spot where Raoul's ring disappeared. "Am I not ugly enough without that added indignity?"

"It is no indignity when the beholder is one who loves you, and I do. Don't mistake me for those who tortured you. I could never scorn you. Please, Erik?" Whether or not she spoke reason, Christine's silvery-sweet voice overwhelmed any resistance he might have had, with one weak exception.

"Christine, it is not…proper…for you to…" he forced his leaden tongue to form the words, "for you to undress me."

"Then you must take your shirt off yourself." All her life, Christine listened to and obeyed the strict directives of her teacher. Now, she used his own commanding tones to bend him to _her _will.

He sat on the piano bench facing away from her and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. This was his last hiding place. He could feel her beloved presence close behind him. Her scent, her warmth, the quiet susurration of her breath wrapped him in a sensual blanket; a stomach-cramping wave of desire woke Erik to the novel and discomfiting suspicion that he wanted no more barriers between them. He shrugged the shirt from his shoulders and let it drop to the floor. The silence was deep and thick. He began to wonder what she was doing, what she was _thinking_, but feared what he'd see if he turned to look at her.

Christine could not find her breath. Ancient scars and discolorations crisscrossed his back from the nape of his neck past the waistline of his pants. Some were as thick as her thumb, others were nearly invisible. She wondered that he could move so lithely considering the expanse of scar tissue. They had done this to him when he was only a little boy. Someone had done this to a child. It was no wonder he flinched when she touched him.

Light as butterfly wings, she slid her palms over the scarred flesh, trying to imagine the brutal treatment he had endured. At first, she wished she could have taken some of the punishment on herself to spare him the pain, but then realized that she would not have passed through that gauntlet unbroken. Again, she ran her palms down the length of his back with more pressure, feeling the honed strength of wiry muscles beneath the scarring. His body and his spirit were…

"So strong," she whispered, now sliding her hands over his shoulders and down the length of his arms.

Entirely unaccustomed to human contact, Erik's skin drank in her touch as dry garden soil drinks in spring rain. Instead of tensing, he found pleasure in relaxing under her exploratory caresses. He no longer questioned how she could bring herself to touch him; that was an enigma beyond his considerable ability to puzzle out.

"_I will permit myself this dream." _The memory of those haughtily spoken words brought the faintest of smiles to the surface. Had he ever really had any choice in the matter? _I have been hopeless for so long…can this bright Angel give me rest? Dare I hope for happiness? _

Christine stood back and shut her eyes tightly. When she opened them, she bid herself see her Angel as the fair-goers would see him, as Meg would see him. The grotesque scarring on his back, the few strands of limp hair hanging in scattered patches from his mottled scalp…she circled around to include his face in her scrutiny. His eyes were closed, hiding the only beauty his face could boast. That face _was_ a demonic mask. Sharp bony protrusions erupted where the softness of brow and cheek should have been. They threw shadows over deeply sunken eyes. Humped and cratered twists of white and red flesh stretched itself over the nearly visible musculature. The nose was missing entirely except for a thin flap of skin covering the bony bridge of the aborted structure. She saw these things with torturous clarity, but despite her best efforts to see with objective coldness, she still saw her noble, gentle Angel of Music. He could never be a monster to her. Now, all she had to do was make him see what she saw. She almost laughed at the futility of it, but her resolve remained.

"Come with me, Erik, please?" Christine took both his hands and tugged.

Erik opened his eyes and stood. Christine was trying to lead him out the door; he pulled one of his hands from hers and snatched his cloak on the way out. "Where are we going Angel?"

"The Mirror Room."

Suddenly, it was not a willing Erik she was pulling, but the Phantom. He stopped cold and gripped her hand.

"What do you know of that place?" His voice was rumbling with anger. His grip on her hand tightened and became painful. "I never gave permission for you to go there!"

"When we came here, you left me standing alone and unguided!" she shot back, indignant. "What did you think I'd do?"

"You pry when you should not!" he snarled.

"You hide when you should not!" was her quick retort.

Erik suppressed a swelling urge to grab her and shake her. In a hissing whisper, he said, "If you know what lies within those walls, why would you drag me there like this?" He jerked his hand towards his maskless face and shirtless torso.

Christine used his merciless grip on her hand like a towline, pulling him on again unmindful of the wrenching pain in her hand and wrist. "To give you new eyes through which to see…"

They stood at the threshold, staring up at the door.

"Christine, you ask…so much." Suddenly, Erik realized how tightly he was gripping her hand. He felt her little fingers folded and crunched in his merciless grip. He dropped her hand and watched guiltily out the corner of his eye as she massaged it. "Do you know why I built this place?"

Christine winced as she slowly rubbed feeling back into her crushed fingers. "I have a suspicion."

"Tell me. Why do you think…a person…such as me would build a room full of mirrors?"

Christine tried to catch his eye, but he stubbornly stared at the door. She answered plainly. "To look at yourself, I suppose. To look at yourself and hate what you see…"

"Punishment, Christine. I suppose I left out that piece of the story. Listen to this, if you want a pretty tale: When I killed Thomas, I was seventeen years old. Seventeen years old, and I had never seen my uncovered face. When I killed him, while he was strangling to death – don't look away, Christine, I am telling you _my story_ – while he was strangling to death, I took off my mask, knowing seeing my face would add to his horror. He was so terrified he stopped struggling against the rope that was killing him." Erik's voice intensified without increasing in volume. "_He feared my face more than he feared death._ That night I looked in the lake water to see what could so frighten a dying man. When I saw myself…" Erik stopped talking and placed his hand on the doorknob.

After an uncomfortable pause he continued, "I could not find breath to scream or cry. Until then, I only knew that I was ugly enough to be frightening. I had no idea that I truly looked like a demon. Once I saw my reflection, I knew how I could punish myself for every misdeed. I built this. For years, I have come here when I committed some wrong. Now, my Angel is dragging me here…naked to the waist. Even I never punished myself so severely! But see," he knelt beside her and tenderly lifted her reddened and puffy hand to his lips. "I have sinned unforgivably. I have hurt an Angel. Therefore…" He turned the handle and opened the door.


	65. Student Becomes Teacher

Nimbly, Christine hopped up the step and blocked his path. "This is not a punishment, Erik. This is a lesson - and you won't learn a thing if you will not listen."

She leaned forward, her eyes on a level with his now that she stood on the step, and kissed him. It was not a passionate embrace, but a sweet, chaste brushing of her lips against his. "Do you love me, Erik?"

"As I love music itself, Christine." The light touch of her lips on his briefly distracted him from the prospect of entering that hated room.

"And music? You admit that you are the equal of any composer working now?"

Erik lowered his brows indignantly. "I admit no such thing! The equal? Never! I am far superior. My work only goes unnoticed because…"

Christine was smiling and nodding, "As I thought. And…the Opera Populaire. It is a little better now then it was when first you came to live in its cellars? With mild suggestions and negotiation, you may have aided in its development?"

She was goading him. Why? "This opera house would have faded into obscurity long ago had I not bent those simpering managers to my will. Christine, these questions are nonsense."

She gently pulled him into the Mirror Room. Immediately, his eyes were assaulted by his reflection. It should have been torment, but everywhere he looked, there also was _her _image. There were infinite Christines standing beside the infinite Eriks, smiling sweetly. Her fingers were still twined with his; she was leaning very lightly against him, silently offering her support.

When the look of wonder on Erik's face began to lose its novelty, Christine began the lesson. She pressed her hand flat against his back and swallowed her sorrow at the tortures he had endured.

"If I were a fairy queen and I offered to take away all of this - and the memories that accompany it - would you give up the music and go live quietly in a farming village in Nice? You will never sing another note or compose another aria, but you will be the most beloved man in your village."

"I…I don't…" The idea confounded him. Give up Music? She may as well have suggested he give up blinking. "A life without music? No. That I would not do."

"I thought not." Christine watched him gape at her reflections. "Well, let the fairy queen make another offer. A beautiful face, a thick head of hair – I will make you the picture of masculine perfection – and give you wealth and power…but in trade, you must let me go. You will be the darling of every other woman, but you will have to hear me say, 'Forget Erik. I have'."

Pity for the foppish, arrogant boy welled in Erik's heart. Just the thought of Christine dismissing his memory so nonchalantly… "Cruel thing!" he cried, realizing how prettily he had been trapped. His gaze was torn from the mirrors as he turned to regard her in shock. His sweet little ingénue had out-maneuvered the Phantom of the Opera with hardly a thought. She knew precisely what she had done; he could tell by the uncharacteristic smirk on her normally serene face.

"Then you can learn to accept this face," Christine stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, "and reconcile yourself to the injustices of your childhood. You would rather keep your miserable past than be a man to whom the Angel of Music does not speak. You would rather be the ugly genius whom I love than be the beautiful, tepid man my eyes pass over without seeing or caring. And if that is truly your choice, then you must let me love you, Erik. Without your mask, without your cloak, without hiding – just Erik."

"It will take time…" Erik could almost grasp this new concept; he _wanted _to embrace it, but he had lived in secrecy and self-loathing for so long that it eluded him.

"It always does."

"Will you…stay with me…while I master this sage lesson of yours?" Erik's eyes flitted from reflection to reflection. He was suddenly nervous. The Phantom of the Opera suddenly found that his hands were shaking and his mouth was completely bereft of moisture.

Christine's eyes narrowed in confusion. "Stay…with you? Down here? I shall be missed, especially when next week's performance of _Lakme_ goes up. They haven't another soprano who can sing harmony in The Flower Duet without sounding like a tea kettle whistling."

Erik bit his lip to suppress a smile. It was just like his brilliant Christine to see into the darkest recesses of his soul and then miss the simple implications of such a question. If he was going to do this thing, he might as well do it properly - in a way she'd have no chance to misunderstand. Erik turned to face his beloved and gracefully lowered himself to one knee. He took her hand, which still showed signs of abuse, and held it in his as though it were made of spun glass.

"Christine, you have seen all that I have to give and you have seen the worst of me. I can give you Music and Love… and very little else. Knowing that, and in full view of my wretchedness…"

Understanding began to dawn. Her mouth opened slightly, as though she were trying to find her breath.

"Will you consent to be my wife?"

Christine froze where she stood. His wife? Being the wife of Raoul DeChagny had clear implications: domesticity, quiet, obedience, and a great many dinner parties. What would Erik expect of his wife? Mme Giry was fond of saying that a man never changed; he would behave throughout his married life as he had before the nuptial ceremony. If that were true, she could easily predict what Erik would expect of his wife: music. There would certainly be no dinner parties.

She searched his eyes for some hint of his thoughts and saw hope and fear warring with one another. The longer she delayed, the more ground fear won. Christine smiled at him, just to see hope win a victory.

"I have no dowry, no family…I shall not be content to sit and knit or worry over the particulars of market and pin money. I'll not leave the stage. I'll never be a quiet, obedient wife."

"Oh Christine, I would not want you if that is all you wished to be…"

She interrupted him with, "Just like you, all I can offer is Music and Love."

Erik could stand it no more. He stood and grasped her shoulders gently but firmly. "Please! Will you or won't you?"

"We will be a _very_ musical family," declared Christine, shamelessly throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him thoroughly. She sighed contentedly when he wrapped his powerful arms around her waist and lifted her so that she was no longer balancing on tiptoe. When the kiss finally broke and both participants could breathe properly, she murmured, "Of course I'll marry you," and leaned her head against his chest, comfortably aware of its bareness. She listened to his steady heartbeat until she perceived that his breathing was not so steady.

Christine looked up to see that Erik's eyes were full of tears…and a blissful smile was plastered across his face. He marveled a moment at her liquid blue eyes and innocent face staring up at him: his Christine. The thought was so delicious, he had to say it aloud. "My Christine…" Erik, the Opera Ghost and the Angel of Music, buried his face in Christine's thick curls and laughed like a child.

The Mirror-room had lost its terror. Erik occasionally stole a glance around for the pleasure of seeing the infinite Christines in his arms. The young couple embraced for many minutes until Christine reluctantly broke the spell.

"Erik?"

"Yes, my Angel?" his voice was soft and distant; the sound of a man in a dream.

"I'm not going to run away."

"I know, my dearest. You have promised to marry me and stay with me…"

"You can put me down now." Christine kicked her dangling feet a little to emphasize her point.

Too elated to be embarrassed, Erik gently placed her on her feet. Try as he might, he could not bring himself to let loose her hands or stop immersing himself in her warm gaze. Fortunately, Christine was enjoying his attentions. He was truly and deeply happy for the first time in her memory. She had never heard him laugh for pure joy before. It was a rich, melodious, infectious sound. She hoped she could spend the rest of her life making him laugh.

"Erik, we shall have to find a priest wiling to marry us. And…" she cast a significant glance in his direction, "We shall have to improve upon the house. There really isn't room for two."

Christine looped her arm through her fiancé's and began to lead him from the Mirror-room. She was hungry, and she knew there was some bouillabaisse chilling in the cold-pantry. A thought struck her and she paused before opening the door.

"And, Erik?"

"Yes?"

"I absolutely refuse to sleep in a coffin."


	66. Brave Invader

Laughing, Erik reached down and opened the door, guiding Christine through before him with a gentle hand on her elbow. Two steps outside the door, she froze with a horrified gasp. Her stop was so sudden that Erik nearly bumped into her. He looked her over, trying to figure out what the trouble could be – she looked as though she had seen a ghost.

"Raoul…" her voice was low, tremulous, and terribly frightened. "Raoul, how…?"

Raoul had the haggard appearance of a man who had survived Hell, barely. Blood and lake-water slicked his hair flat against his skull. Every exposed inch of skin was bruised or scraped from his encounter with the sandbag and his subsequent encounter with the stone wall. His clothes were torn and drenched; his shirt bulged over his weirdly swollen abdomen. One arm gripped his ribcage in an attempt to stabilize the fractured rib. The other hand held the still-dry revolver out and away from his wet body. His eyes were wild and wide with pain and fear from his ordeal in the tunnels. When he saw Christine step down from the Mirror-room, he took a step forward. She saw that he was barely able to stand. Something dreadful must have happened to him. If he'd navigated the secret passageways on his own, something dreadful likely _had _happened to him.

"Christine…I've come…you're sav-," His eyes moved to look past her. The fear in them exploded into panicky terror. His mind struggled to translate what his eyes were seeing. His worst imaginings regarding Christine's captor were coming true. The thing standing behind her was surely a demon straight from the lowest circles of Hell.

"My God, Christine. _What is that creature behind you!"_

Erik cared little about the insult or for the grievous injuries the sopping wet young man may have sustained in his passageways. The alarm had not sounded; this boy must have disabled it. Had the alarm worked, Erik would have intercepted the foppish aristocrat before his delicate feet ever found the first traps. The whole of Erik's attention was focused on the cocked and ready weapon in the lily-white hand. That hand trembled wildly. What if the boy tried to shoot Erik and missed? Again, the nightmare from the previous night superimposed itself on reality – Christine lying still and cold, blood caked on her unmoving chest.

Without a second thought, Erik roughly laid hold of Christine and thrust her behind him, shielding her with his body. The sudden movement spooked Raoul. His fingers twitched on the trigger. Christine's scream, "Raoul! No!" was lost as the gun's report echoed through the cavernous foundation.

The bullet ricocheted off the stone flagging and sent shards of stone flying. Several sliced Erik's exposed skin, several more lodged in Christine's skirts. She gave a soft hiss of pain as one sliced a fine sizzle of fire along her neck. Raoul stared in shock at the sudden appearance of red against the china-white of Christine's throat. _I could have killed her, _he thought. _I would never have shot the gun at all were it not for that monster. _Steeling his nerves, Raoul raised the gun and supported his shaking hand with his opposing wrist.

"Move away from her, demon. Christine, come to me and let's get away from here." Raoul tried to make his voice sound commanding and controlled, but the growing pain in his belly made it difficult to speak loudly.

"Raoul…please. He is no demon. He's just a man, like any other." Christine's voice was jagged with nerves. Only Erik's danger kept her from fleeing.

"Christine, this thing has bewitched you. You aren't seeing clearly! Trust me when I say that you are in the presence of a monstrosity." Raoul could not tear his eyes from Erik's face. He had seen smallpox victims and burn victims, but he had never seen anything to match this freak - or demon or whatever it might be.

Under his breath, Erik muttered, "That's true, but I am not it." He watched as the boy's face slowly drained of color. Something was wrong with Raoul that could not be explained by fear or anger.

"No, Raoul. Erik is not what he appears to be. He has not harmed me, though he has had ample opportunity to do so. I have been here all night." Christine got the distinct impression that Raoul would not respond to reason, but she had to try. The need to defend Erik's character overwhelmed her better judgment that commanded her to run.

"I know. I saw you go through the mirror with him. I saw you _embrace_ him." Raoul's stomach turned at the thought. He felt extremely nauseated, as though he might vomit at any moment. He desperately did not want to be sick in front of Christine.

"You were spying?" Anger put flaming color back into Christine's cheeks and stole the tremor from her voice. "I'll have you know that I embraced him because I _love_ him. I'm not coming back with you, Raoul."

"You will! You will come back with me, and you will love me…"

"She will not." Erik's voice was full of pity, as kind as Christine's was cutting. He could feel sympathy for this poor boy who had earned Christine's scorn. "Christine speaks the language of music. She loves me because I can hear her and speak to her in kind. I've watched you in the opera house. Do you even like music, monsieur?"

Raoul did not reply. He only spun the chamber and cocked the hammer. Erik gestured to Christine. _Run, Christine. Please run… _Instead, Christine stepped forward.

"Raoul, leave him…leave _us…_ alone."

"If you won't come with me, Christine, I have to assume you have sold your soul to this demon." Raoul took a faltering step forward. There was something wrong with his vision. It kept changing from clear to blurry; he couldn't focus consistently. His voice took on a sorrowing note. "And if you've done that, I'll have to kill you, too." Ponderously, he swiveled the gun in her direction.

"NO!" Erik exerted the full power of his well-trained voice. It echoed around them louder than the first gunshot had done. Raoul's hands reflexively jerked back towards him. _Good, _thought Erik. _If the boy is mad, I can play off his madness. Maybe Christine can escape. _"If the demon that possesses her is destroyed, then she will be free. You don't have to kill her, Raoul. Only me." He spread his arms, at once making himself an easier target and blocking Raoul's view of Christine. Throwing his voice so that only she could hear, Erik whispered, "Run, Christine. Hide."

The pain in his stomach made it difficult to understand the demon's words. He only had to kill…who? The demon. Right. Raoul blinked, aimed, and pulled the trigger just as his legs gave out beneath him.

Erik felt flaring heat followed by a peculiar numbness as the lead bullet dug a gaping trench in his thigh. The leg would no longer support him. As he crumpled to the ground, his only thought was, _Christine is safe. _Raoul lay perfectly still, face down, ten paces away; he was no longer a threat. Erik closed his eyes and drifted off into the gauzy grey cloud that had settled over him.

The still bodies of two men lay on the stone in front of her. At first, Christine was too horrified and shocked to move; then she saw that Erik was bleeding from the leg. Not the chest or the head – the leg. He was alive! As if in answer to her jubilant thought, he stirred and groaned. _Shock. He's only in shock. _She ran and knelt at his side, ripping the fabric away from the wound to inspect it. The bullet had flattened when it struck flesh, but the wound was external. It was deep, and the bleeding was heavy – but it was controllable. She tore her sash from her dress and quickly knotted a tourniquet over the wound, silently thanking Meg's obsession with war-time nurse stories.

Erik opened his eyes, roused by the pain of Christine's ministrations. He was surprised to find that he was still alive. The fire in his thigh quickly explained why he was not dead. He saw Christine kneeling beside him, bloody up to her elbows. That galvanized him. He sat up quickly, then sank back to his elbows as a wave of dizziness washed over him.

"Christine! Are you…"

"Hush, Erik. I'm fine. He shot you in the leg. You are bleeding, but I have put a tourniquet on it. I did not know what else to do…"

Living alone had forced Erik to learn much about medicine. If he could only sit up to see the injury, he could assess its severity. The dizziness and shock made this an impossibility without…help.

"Christine? Will you," he swallowed hard, hating having to ask her help when she had already done so much. "please help me to sit up. I need to see the bullet hole."

Once the wave of dizziness from a change of position had passed, a brief inspection told Erik that the wound was deep, but not at all life threatening as long as it was kept clean and bandaged. He talked Christine through pouring a little medicinal liquor over the wound and then bandaging it tightly. Once that was done, he had her help him to his feet and then to his bedroom door.

"Stay here. Only come in if….something…happens." He did not think Raoul would move again. There had been something very wrong with him throughout the harrowing exchange.

Christine nodded and stood quietly outside the door, listening for any hint of activity outside. In the church-like silence, the only thing she could hear were her racing thoughts. Raoul may have come with the intention of "saving" her, but he had ended up meaning to kill her. He almost _had_ killed Erik.

As long as she and Erik were in the Opera Populaire, they would face such prejudice. Erik had known this from the very beginning; it had been so his entire life. Only Christine, in her naïve innocence, believed they might go on to live happily in the opera house, performing and composing together into blissful old age. He'd asked her to marry him and she'd promised her hand happily – but _who_ would marry them? There would be no families, no guests to witness the wedding. Hers had always been a quiet life, but if she married Erik she would share in his complete solitude.

Sharing that solitude did not seem like such a terrible thing; were it not for the music. The compositions she had looked over the night before were stunning. If only M. Reyeurre could see his work, if the managers would allow it to be performed, they would have no choice but to acknowledge him and welcome him with open arms. They would have to overlook the mask. He could be free…

The bedroom door opened and Erik limped out, only to be wrapped in a tight hug by two bloody arms attached to a weeping Christine. Bewildered, he put his arms around her and held her for a moment, not in the least understanding why she should break down now. The danger was over. She was fine, he would heal.

"Come, Christine. Stop crying." His voice had regained its commanding surety. "We have to go see about our brave invader."


	67. Quiet Heroics

Erik led the way out the door, with Christine following directly behind. Raoul was no longer lying face down on the stone. He had squirmed and writhed in pain so that he was now curled on his side several feet away, precariously close to the black lake water. Where he had been, there was a puddle of dark liquid. Erik turned to Christine when they were still several paces from Raoul and the dark puddle.

"Christine, we do not know what is wrong with the b…with Raoul. It may be that he is injured, but it may also be that he has some illness. I think you should stay here and let me see to him." The blood at Christine's throat and the aged look in her eyes represented all the injury he was willing to see her sustain.

"Erik, it is my fault he came here. If I hadn't called for you…" her voice was low and angry.

"If you hadn't called for me, we would not be engaged to be married right now." Erik smiled indulgently.

"Regardless. Let me go with you. Always, Angel, anywhere you go, let me go with you." She gave him a look that weakened both his resistance and his knees.

Ignoring the puddle, Christine went straight to Raoul's side. The gun was clutched in both hands against his stomach. His eyes were screwed tightly shut; once she was close enough, she could hear him moaning deep in his chest. She hooked a cautious finger around the stock of the gun and pulled. With an effort, she was able to free the deadly thing. His eyes fluttered and his moaning increased in pitch, but he never seemed to be aware of her presence. Christine gingerly put the gun on the ground and then pushed it away sharply so that it slid beyond reach. She heard Erik pick up the gun and felt him approach. It comforted her to know that he was near.

"Raoul? Raoul, can you hear me?" She tapped his shoulder and spoke close to his ear. After several repetitions, he stopped moaning and slitted his eyes enough to see her.

"Christine…" he whispered. "Where…demon…?"

"There's no demon. What's wrong? What happened? I cannot help you if I don't know what's wrong."

There was a long pause, during which Raoul struggled to uncurl enough to talk to her. She saw blood stains on his shirt and smears of blood on his lips and chin. There was an unpleasant smell about him that Christine did her best not to notice. "I…the passageways. Theatre tricks. Something from the ceiling. Kicked by a horse…"

It sounded like gibberish to Christine. There were no horses on the ceiling in the passageways. She turned to Erik. He was fully clothed and wearing his mask. She assumed this was for Raoul's comfort; Erik had cloaked himself out of consideration for a man who had tried to kill him.

In response to her confused look, Erik nodded. "He disarmed the alarm, but must have been caught by the sandbag trap. That means he was hit by a fifty pound sandbag about right here." Erik indicated his abdomen. "That he survived is amazing- and disturbing. I need to rethink the trap. Maybe a one-hundred pound bag…"

Christine's disbelieving stare brought him back to the present situation. Erik cleared his throat and went on, "He has taken a massive blow to his stomach. No doubt he has ruptured something inside. Without knowing how long he's been injured, there is little I can tell you. If he is bleeding inside, there is nothing I can do for him. We can try to take him up and hope they can help him, but the trip itself might prove fatal. I am sorry, Christine."

"We can't leave him on this cold stone." Christine looked back towards the house. "But the only place to put him is your…your coffin." A shudder trilled up and down her spine.

Raoul's hand, burning hot, found Christine's. "I don't want to die…not down here. There's a demon. He'll take me to Hell."

She took his hand and patted it. "There _is_ _no_ demon, Raoul. You won't die down here. You will be alright. Just…rest." He only gave a moan that rose to a low scream and curled tight again.

"We must take him back up, Erik. Even if it…even if it will be dangerous." She disengaged her hand from Raoul's burning grasp and stood near Erik. They watched the writhing man with intense concern.

"How would you have us do that, Christine? Shall we simply deposit him in the dining room for the dinner crowd to find? Or shall I walk up to our beloved managers and say, 'Hello, pleased to meet you. I am M. le Fantome. Please stop trembling. Here is your patron. I am sorry, but he's a bit worse for the wear.'?" Erik's voice was bitter and bitingly sarcastic.

Christine pressed her fists to her eyes. Of course they could not do those things. Was there no one in the Opera Populaire who would not scream and run at the sight of Erik? Her thoughts turned to her only friends. Meg and Mme Giry had known for years about her mysterious voice teacher. Perhaps it was time for them to meet him.

"Mme Giry might help us. She knows of you. Does one of your infamous passages lead to her quarters?"

"Oh yes, she knows of me. It is as good a solution as any." Erik exhaled slowly. He had controlled Mme Giry for years through letters and ghostly voice-tricks, but he found that the thought of meeting her face-to-face frightened him. "If you will stay here with him, I will get the boat on the water."

Christine saw the creeping dread in his eyes and puzzled over it a moment. She had grown used to being with her Angel of Music; in her mind, he had become exactly as she had labeled him to Raoul: a man like any other. But then she thought of his long, sad story.

_Complete solitude, _she thought. _I am the only person he has been with in almost a score of years. The last people he was with tried to beat him to death._ She watched him manhandle the boat out of the music room, and suddenly remembered the gaping wound in his leg. As she jumped from her seat to aid her fiancé, one last despairing thought flared across her mind. _Not the only person…there was Raoul, and Raoul shot him without hesitation._ _Why is Erik _helping_ him?_

Unbeknownst to Christine, Erik was having an identical thought at that moment. The pain in his leg was enormous – the little bit of bitter white willow bark he was chewing did little to ease the throbbing. It was lucky the bullet had passed all the way through. Otherwise he would have slowly died of lead poisoning – there was no physician to cut the bullet out. . As it was, the wound still might become infected. But the wound was not why he questioned the wisdom of his determination to help the young blue-blood. Erik understood an implication of the boy's survival that had not crossed Christine's young and innocent mind.

If Raoul survived – and he would only survive with Erik's assistance – he would remember everything. He would know of the underground home and its monstrous inhabitant. He would know a path through the passageways. Raoul would remember that Christine had stood by Erik, and refused to leave. What was there to keep the boy from spilling everything he knew to the managers? The police would be brought in. They would find his home; they would drive him out and kill him if they caught him. They would destroy everything he'd built – everything he had ever been.

The Angel of Music wrestled with the boat and his resolve to help his enemy with equal ferocity. When Christine came in and worked to lift the boat, he smiled lovingly at her and thought, _The boy may destroy me, but he will never know the bliss of having been loved by you. _He would help Raoul out of pity for the Angel's touch he would never know; he would do it because Christine expected it of him. The boy would almost certainly die from the internal bleeding. The damage was low in the abdomen, the belly; if the boy did not survive, it would be a slow, agonizing death. If Erik had known that Raoul had wished exactly that fate on him, he would only have smiled.

Christine took a lantern from the music room wall. Together, they put the boat on the lake. Together, they carefully transferred Raoul from shore to boat. Erik poled the boat across the lake, while Christine balanced precariously in the bow. On the opposite shore, Erik lifted Raoul like a child. Raoul cried out for his mother in a delirium of pain. Tears started in Christine's eyes; Erik only stared straight ahead, ignoring his enemy's show of weakness. They passed the place where the floor had fallen away beneath Gerard's feet. Erik peered down into the pit, amazed to see the evidence of fire, but no bodies.

It was not long before the pain and weariness from his wound forced Erik to stop. To cover his weakness, he turned to Christine. "Sweet Angel, we have passed the worst of the traps. Run ahead with your light and find Mme. Giry. Bring her to your parlor. I will be along with him soon." Christine leaned in and kissed his forehead before walking off, taking the light with her and casting the men into darkness. When he could no longer see the lantern glow, Erik sank to the floor, exhaling heavily through clenched teeth. Christine's room was not far – in perfect health, it would be less than a two minute walk. Burdened with an injury and a full grown man, Erik wondered if he could make it at all. When he thought his leg would support him again, he struggled to his feet and carried on.

DeChagny moaned quietly, and opened his eyes. The murky depths of unconsciousness receded and he was aware of himself again. This pain was unlike anything he had ever experienced. It was all-consuming. He looked for Christine, but she had abandoned him. Above him hovered the white-masked face of the Opera Ghost. Christine had left him to the tender mercies of a demon. She truly did not love him, then. He reached one trembling hand out and gripped the creature's shoulder. The blank mask turned down to regard him; eyes like glacial ice bore into him. Raoul prayed that Christine was right: that this was no demon. Maybe, if the creature was actually a man, he would grant one mercy.

"Kill me. Please."


	68. Gendarmes

The request, spoken quietly with great effort and pain, was nevertheless clear. There could be no doubt what Raoul was asking of him, or whether he was entirely serious about the request. Erik stared down impassively at the dying man's face. In the murky light that was barely sufficient for the Phantom's eyes, the younger man's face looked pale and childlike. _That's all he is, _thought Erik, _a child who thought he was on a great adventure, like a knight in fairytales. No one ever told him that some fairy tale monsters are real. _

Again, Erik felt pity for this boy who had been his enemy. The smell that rose off him in sick waves and the startling distension of his lower abdomen told Erik that Raoul's chances of survival were small, indeed. If a very skilled surgeon were to get to the boy in a very short while those chances might grow a bit, but even then he was almost certainly doomed. If no surgeon could be found, his death would be grotesque. Erik could easily deliver a relatively gentle, painless death by pressing his hand over the boy's mouth and nose. Christine would never know that Erik had done the killing - that Raoul's death was due to his abdominal injury would never be questioned - but Erik would know. And he would know that he had lied to Christine.

"_Death can be a mercy, Christine. Sometimes it's the only way to end suffering…" _his own words from that morning. But then there was Christine's answering voice in his mind. "_And sometimes it's not_." There was a chance that Raoul could be saved. Erik sighed as he struggled to keep walking down the passageway with the heavy, writhing young man in his arms. His leg burned and felt weak.

The boy had done this to him with his damned revolver. _I'd be dead now had he not collapsed. _Even so, he could not stop feeling sorry for the poor, dying man. The boy had acted under the assumption that he was saving Christine. Erik knew that in a similar position, he would have done a similar thing. _Except I would have done it intelligently,_ thought Erik. He sighed harshly.

"I…I cannot. S_he_ wants you to live." Erik found he could not meet Raoul's tearful gaze.

"She…Christine…" Raoul felt darkness trying to take him. He fought it. She wanted him to live?

Erik closed his eyes against the hope that bloomed in Raoul's face. "Yes. She has gone ahead to summon help for you."

"You are …taking me…" _to her, _he meant to finish, but there was too much pressure and not enough air

"To safety. Yes."

"But…shot you." In his pain, with death grinning not far ahead, Raoul experienced a clarity of thought that was entirely new to him.

"Be quiet, boy. You'll do yourself more harm. You shot me; I am trying to save you. We both did what we have done for the love of Christine." His own words lent him new strength. For the love of Christine he would risk his life, would risk losing everything.

"Love." Raoul pronounced the word slowly. _Did I love her? _His mind was clouding, darkening_. Did I love her as he does? _Darkness swallowed him then, mercifully.

Erik felt the writhing stop. Raoul was still breathing, still alive, but barely. He quickened his pace. If he was going to risk everything, he may as well do it with enthusiasm. The sooner they reached Christine's parlor, the sooner a surgeon could be summoned. Paris was home to many of the country's greatest doctors. Maybe the boy would live.

Christine ran down the passageway, holding the lantern out in front of her. She encountered no traps, no tripwires. Erik had told her that the worst was past. But he was wrong. When she came to the part of the passageway that led to her private apartments, she realized the hall was flooded with light. She quickly doused the lantern and slowed her pace. Why was there light?

Carefully, she poked her head around the corner and swallowed her gasp. The mirror was gone entirely, except for a few jagged pieces of glass remaining around the edges. Raoul must have done that to get into the passageway. The sight of her destroyed mirror was not what drew a gasp from her. Her parlor was also filled with light – and people. Police. Police with guns and lanterns, who were preparing to enter the passageway.

She felt as though she might soil her dress. How could she stop this? What had Raoul done? Her normally sharp mind was rendered numb and stupid with concern for Erik. If they found him, they would unmask him. If they unmasked him, they would kill him. And that would kill her.

She stepped out from her hiding place and walked slowly towards the opening. When they spotted her, two gendarmes rushed forward and grasped her upper arms, pulling her from the passageway. Meg burst through the crowd and flung her arms around her, weeping hysterically.

"Oh, thank God you are alright, Christine!" Meg stopped and critically examined her friend, seeing the blood that stained her arms and dress. "Oh, Mother Mary! That's blood! Whose blood is that Christine? You are alright, aren't you?"

"I'm alright, Meg. I am fine. It's… his blood. Raoul shot him." Christine looked around pointedly. "What are all these people doing in _my apartment?_"

Meg gushed the story, her relief guiding her tongue. Had the situation not been so dire, Christine would have laughed. As it was, the telling bought valuable time for thinking – the gendarmes stayed to see the young diva's reaction to the story, and to question her about the dangers in the passageways.

"Well, Raoul told the managers that you had run down a secret passage with the Ghost and they said that that was your business, not theirs. But you know Raoul. He decided he would go save you himself, no matter what mother told him. He got two of the men from the stage crew to go with him. You know Gerard and Jakob. Well, Jakob came out carrying Gerard. He'd been dropped in a hole and burned. Gerard died, Christine! The police asked Jakob how it happened, and now they are all here to find the Opera Ghost and drive him out, once and for all. And then you suddenly appear. Where _is_ Raoul?"

"Yes, young woman, where is Raoul?" A tall, dark man stepped forward. He took Christine's arm and guided her to a chair. His voice was clam and soothing. "Where have you been, and whose blood is this?"

"Monsieur, Raoul is…" she looked down at her bloody hands. How could she prepare these people for Erik? "Raoul is on his way here now. He is…injured. If you summon a surgeon right away, he may be saved."

"He fell prey to another trap?" he gestured to one of his men, who rushed off to summon the surgeon.

"Yes. A man has a right to defend his home, hasn't he? Raoul was intruding."

"And that is where you have been? This…Opera Ghost's…home?"

"Yes. Of my own free will. This is his blood."

"He is dead then?" Sighs of relief spread through the gathered crowd. Rumors of the dreadful Phantom of the Opera were known throughout the city. None of these gendarmes wanted to deal with him.

"No. He is bringing Raoul. He is also wounded. Oh, Messieurs, please don't hurt him." Her eyes were huge with fear; tears streamed down her face.

"Our orders are to shoot him on sight, but you say he is bringing the Vicompte's younger brother?" Disbelief was evident in the older man's voice.

"He's trying to save him, monsieur."

"The Ghost is trying to save a man who shot him? A man who he has injured with his own traps? Pardon me, Mademoiselle, as a gentleman I would never accuse a lady of lying, but I find this very difficult to believe."

"Then wait, Monsieur. You will see." Christine rose from the chair and walked to the mirror. If Erik emerged to see himself surrounded by gendarmes, there was no way to tell what he would do. If only she could get to him first, shield him with her body…maybe they could escape.

"What do you think you are doing, Mademoiselle?"

"I am trying to save the innocent man you are trying to kill. I am trying to save my fiancé."

She could hear him now – heavy straggling footsteps in the passageway. _Please, Erik, trust me. _He appeared around the bend, eyes slitted in pain, dripping with sweat. Raoul dangled limply in his arms. He looked up and saw her, a smile of triumph formed on his lips. When he looked beyond her to the crowd of armed men, the smile dropped away. Christine rushed ahead of the gendarmes, blocking their view. Behind her, she heard the sound of guns being cocked.


	69. Into the Lion's Den

"Erik, put him down here. They will not shoot at me, I think. Just put him down and we can walk away." Christine whispered to her Angel softly and soothingly.

Erik stared at the armed men, then looked down to the pale, drawn man in his arms. The young aristocrat was surprisingly tough. He was still breathing; at the sound of Christine's voice, he began to move again. The two of them had come this far – Erik felt an irrational resistance to putting his charge down anywhere other than the reclining couch in Christine's apartment. That had been his goal all along and he'd be damned if he would fail now.

"They will not shoot me while I hold Raoul, Christine. Let me by." He tried to make his words gentle, but exhaustion and pain lent them an unintended sharpness. Christine knew Erik well enough that she simply stepped aside and then sidled as close to his back as she could, trying to protect his vulnerability.

The Phantom of the Opera stepped into the parlor, holding himself as straight and proud as possible. It seemed that no one breathed or moved – the room was dead silent. The opera residents present shrank back from him, their minds full of rumors and stories. Only Mme Giry held her ground, staring at her employer of the last decade and more made flesh. _Why, he's so young!_ she thought, amazed. The gendarmes kept their weapons trained on the advancing figure, knowing that they could not shoot without endangering Raoul.

Erik pulled his dignity around him like a heavy cloak. He had not been in the presence of this many people since he was ten years old. He ignored them, concentrating on being gentle and careful with the writhing young man. A pathway opened up leading to the couch. Erik laid his groaning, twisting burden on the couch, then turned to face the gawking crowd. He felt Christine press against him and realized that she was trying to protect him by shielding his body with hers. Without a word, he gently wrapped his arms gratefully around her shoulders. There was no sense ordering her to leave – she was far too willful. The gendarmes had closed in behind him; their faces were grim, their eyes held the promise of violence.

"Step away from the girl and hold your hands above your head!" cried a strained voice from the small group of gendarmes.

_They are still frightened of me. I am unarmed, injured…I just brought back this blue-blooded booby…and they are still frightened of me. _He slowly lifted his arms from Christine's shoulders and held his open hands palm out at shoulder height. He took a small step back. Feeling his slight movement, Christine gracefully stepped with him.

"Step away from the girl!" the same voice rang out again, this time more confidently, perceiving that the masked man did not intend to resist.

His voice calm and melodious, Erik responded, "I do not believe, monsieur, that _the girl_ will let me."

Christine vehemently shook her head. She was between death and Erik; no force on Earth would move her. "I shall not move, messieurs, until you have told me what it is he has done."

"He's a murderer, mademoiselle. Gerard died…"

"Of his own stupidity!" Christine could take no more. She was yelling at these men who had the temerity to invade her parlor and threaten her fiancé. "This man has just carried Raoul to safety, even though Raoul invaded his home and shot him in the leg. How can you call him a murderer?" Her look was truly reproachful.

"Step aside, child." The tall man, the Commissaire, was speaking now. "Or we will have to take you by force."

Christine turned away from the cold, dangerous men and buried her face in Erik's chest. His arms went protectively around her, but he was speaking quietly to her, telling her to let him go. "I could not bear to see you hurt, Christine. Let me go."

She looked up at him, pleading. He only shook his head. "I told you I was a monster. Save my music, if you can." A man had come forward and was pulling Christine away. Erik kept talking, kept his eyes focused on her. "The score I have been composing…it's in the locked room at the back of my – our – house. Give it to the managers." She was struggling against the gendarme who held her, but was too small to break away. "I love you, Christine."

The rest of the men descended on him, pinioning his arms behind him, pressing the barrels of their revolvers to his ribcage, shouting warnings that he was not to fight, not to move. They may as well have commanded the furniture not to resist. Erik watched his heart and soul being dragged away and held tight against her will. She was screaming his name and crying out that she loved him. _I know, Christine. If only I could have spared you this. _Rough hands began dragging him towards the door. His eyes never left hers.

The door to the apartment opened and closed, unnoticed amongst the tumult. Vicompte deChagny had been summoned, along with his personal surgeon. He was accustomed to a far more formal greeting upon entering a room, and sought the center of the activity. An unmoving, well-dressed man in a mask was being roughly arrested by a slew of gendarmes. Beyond the man, his brother lay on the parlor sofa and was slowly regaining consciousness. The surgeon was already gone, rushing to his patient's side, taking his vital signs, checking the pressure in his abdomen.

The Vicompte strode up to the Commissaire, who bowed deeply. "Alexandre, what is going on here? Halt your men and tell me what has happened."

A gesture from Commissaire sufficed to stop his men.

"Vicompte! Your brother is on the couch. Ah, I see that the surgeon is already with him. We have apprehended the supposed Phantom of the Opera!" He looked at his men proudly. They held their prisoner, waiting for orders. "The little girl over there gave us more trouble than the infamous 'Ghost'."

Phillippe looked at Christine, bloodied and still struggling to reach Erik. So, this was the mysterious music teacher who had instructed the girl in voice. Many of the great ladies he met in his social circles had urged him to attend the opera to hear the girl sing, if for no other reason. They said she was sublime.

"Why is she covered in blood?" he inquired. The surgeon was working furiously on his brother; he did not want to disturb them, even to inquire after his brother's status. He concerned himself with the young lady instead.

"It would seem that your brother shot the 'Ghost' in the leg. It _further_ seems that this Phantom bleeds like any other man." Commissaire Duprix could afford to be snide. His men were in control here.

"In self-defense? What has happened to my brother?"

"We do not know, Monsieur. He is not shot. His malady seems to be…of the abdominal area."

"If he is so sorely wounded, how did he get here? Am I supposed to believe that that slip of a girl dragged him to safety?"

An awkward silence descended. Commissaire Duprix furrowed his brow and cast an anxious glance at the Opera Ghost who had eyes only for the opera girl. "It was the Phantom, Monsieur. He carried your brother here."

"After being shot in the leg? My brother is not a small man." Without waiting for an answer, Phillippe left the Commissaire and approached Christine. When she saw him approach she went limp, thinking that Erik's judge and executioner had arrived.

"Christine, I am going to ask you a question. On your life, you answer me truthfully."

She merely nodded. On _her_ life, did he say? It hardly mattered.

"How was my brother injured?"

"He disabled Erik's alarm…"

"Erik?"

She pointed to her fiancé, who now stood staring at the two of them with those beautiful, intense eyes.

"Erik. My fiancé. Raoul disabled the alarm, so no one knew he was in the passages, and then set off the trap. By the time he came to us, he was nearly unconscious from pain. He was delirious. He threatened me and then shot Erik. He passed out. Erik carried him back here." Now she regained some of her sprit as her anger at the injustice came back to her. "Erik carried him back here and his reward is to be arrested and…and…God knows what else you will do to him." Tears spilled down her cheeks. "A man has a right to defend his home, hasn't he!"

"If he is no outlaw, why does he wear that mask?" Phillippe studied the suddenly fearful expression that passed over the girl's face: not fear _of_ the Phantom, but fear _for_ him. She was about to speak, when:

"Vicompte!" The surgeon's reedy voice interrupted them. "Your brother is awake. He is speaking."


	70. Brethren

Raoul was awake again. He did not want to open his eyes or move; such actions would take too much of his waning energy. His ears were working perfectly. He heard the pitiful separation of Christine and Erik. He heard Erik's declaration of love and Christine's cries. He knew that Erik was being arrested. He remembered Erik's care in bringing him back up to the surface.

The surgeon was talking to him, trying make him respond. Where was the pain? Could he hear him? Could he speak? Did he know where he was? Raoul wanted the annoying man to go away and leave him alone. It was impossible to think with that high pitched voice droning in his ear and those cold hands pressing his belly, setting off explosions like Chinese fireworks. What did he want to think about? Oh yes. Christine and Erik. Erik, who did what he did for the love of Christine. Could he stop them from arresting Erik? He owed the man that, at least, considering everything Raoul had done to him and all he had done for Raoul. What was the surgeon saying now?

"Your brother is here. The Vicompte is here."

Raoul licked his lips and forced air into his lungs, which felt squeezed and cramped. "Get my brother."

Within seconds, he sensed his brother's powerful presence. This was the man who had taught him everything he knew about being a nobleman, and about honor. Raoul hoped he could make his brother understand quickly. There was no air, no strength. The surgeon murmured to his brother for a moment, too low for Raoul to hear. There was no need to hear; he knew that that quick and quiet conversation meant that he was dying.

"I am here, little brother. I just talked to the good doctor." There was a long pause while Phillippe searched for the right words. "You will feel better very soon." That was true. Raoul would not likely live out the hour.

"Pepe," Raoul reverted to his brother's pet name; it was shorter and easier to say. "Tell them…let him go."

"Don't be ridiculous! He set the trap that has…has injured you. I'll not let him walk free." Phillippe did not say that he intended to charge the monstrous man with his brother's murder.

"No. Did it…to myself." Raoul rested for a moment. The thoughts and words were ponderous, unwieldy things. "My own fault. Please. Let him go." This was his last chance, he knew. "Please. On my honor. Let him go. We did …what we have done…for the love of Christine."

That rocked Phillippe back on his heels. "_On my honor." _How could he deny a dying man his final wish that he made on his honor. With a deep sigh, Phillippe patted his brother's shoulder, then kissed him on each cheek. "As you wish it, Raoul. I will see them set free today. Worry no more about it." The younger man smiled, then began to convulse. The priest who served the Opera Populaire, and had been summoned along with the surgeon, ran forward and began pronouncing the final sacred rights. By the time his intonations ended, so had Raoul's life.

A respectful silence hung over the room. With hearing honed by years of stealthy listening, Erik overheard much of the brothers' conversation. Hitherto, he had felt only contempt for the boy, but now he mourned the passing of the man. A glance at Christine broke and exulted his heart. She had not looked away from her Angel of Music until silence descended. Now, she dissolved in tears, doubtless believing that Erik's chances of survival had passed with the man. Her fearful eyes followed the Vicompte as he blotted his eyes with his handkerchief, cleared his throat and stood to face the crowd that had gathered.

"My brother, Raoul DeChagny, has died…" he stopped to clear his throat. "His last request, which I and the good Commissaire _will _honor," here he shot a significant glance to Commissaire Duprix, "is that this man and this woman go free. _But_ before Monsieur le Fantome is let go, I have my own demand. Everyone who is not clergy, law, under arrest, or Christine: leave us."

The rush towards the door was instantaneous. No one wanted to stay in a room with a dead man and a living ghost. Meg and Mme Giry paused by Christine and squeezed her hand in friendship. Christine was standing bolt upright, her eyes wide open, her mouth working soundlessly. She leaned against the grip of the gendarme who held her, but was not struggling. Her face was white with hectic splotches of red on the cheeks; her eyes were glassy. She looked as though she were in the grip of a killing fever. The two women did not think she was aware of their friendly gesture.

When the room was cleared, Phillippe turned to Erik.

"You are on your honor not to run if I allow these men to release you." It was an order, there was no question.

The turmoil in Erik's mind whirled incessantly. Men had ever been a bane to him. Men beat and tortured, men used threats and force. As much as he had feared the prospect of meeting Mme Giry face to face, he discovered that he feared dealing with this man more. Erik realized that never once in his entire life had he stood face-to-face with another man and held a conversation. Outwardly, he stood strong, his eyes impassive, ignoring the men who held him as though they were beneath his notice.

"Monsieur, I am always on my honor." It was all he could think to say, so he said it with as much power and grace as he possessed.

Phillippe smiled sadly. Had his brother had half of this man's self-possession and nobility, he might not be lying dead on an opera couch now. He looked to the gendarmes.

"Release him, and step away."

Reluctantly, the men did as they were ordered. Erik continued to stand as he had before, moving only to smooth his rumpled dress clothes.

"I cannot speak to a mask. Remove it." Phillippe was as curious as anyone else.

"I respectfully decline, Monsieur." Erik kept his voice melodious and calm as he reached for the mode of discourse he had heard spoken by the elite in the tea rooms over the years. Phillippe's countenance darkened. "I assure you that you would prefer it to…the face behind the mask."

"Regardless of your respect and my comfort; remove it. I would see the face of the man who is responsible for the death of my brother." Phillippe was getting angry. He had something to say to this man before he could go home and grieve and he did not intend to say it to a blank theatre mask.

"Monsieur, I will not." Erik was also becoming angry. He was so close to freedom and if this powerful man saw what was hidden, he would likely revoke that offer of freedom.

Phillippe started forward aggressively and Erik was poised to meet him when a sweet, but strong voice interrupted them.

"Gentlemen, there is still a lady present." Christine had fought for and won her composure. There was still a man holding her firmly; this suddenly felt like a great indignity. She was a lady, not a street-walking cut-purse. "And she is being treated insufferably."

Phillippe felt himself flush. It was, indeed, ungracious to have a lady held so. He gestured to the gendarme assigned to her and he released her.

Christine looked down at her torn, dirtied, bloodied clothing and sighed. She knew her hair was also in a terrible state. _I must behave as though I were dressed in silks and satins_, she thought, and drew herself up. She walked with light, steady steps to Erik's side.

"Vicompte, is it truly your wish that this man remove his mask?" She knew what the answer would be, but she wanted to give him a chance to recant.

"It is my wish _and_ my condition for his freedom." The Vicompte was determined not to be swayed.

"Then, sir, I must make a request, as a lady."

He sighed. This woman pressed more than she ought. "What is it?"

"That you allow these gendarmes with their guns to leave the room." The Vicompte only raised his eyebrow. Christine understood that more of an explanation was needed. "It is for the protection of my fiancé." Unconsciously, Christine had pressed close to Erik's side and twined her arms through his. They were so close. "I will be responsible for his actions."

Phillippe laughed outright at her. "He is so tame that a woman can control him?" He smirked when Erik stiffened a bit.

"He is such a _gentleman_ that he needs no one to 'control' him." Christine hoped that her frequent allusions to station would keep this man in a noble state of mind. She smiled inwardly to feel Erik relax again beside her.

"Alright. Leave us." He pointed towards the door. "You too, Alexandre."

Finally, no one remained in the room but the chapel priest, Phillippe, Erik, and Christine. Christine looked around with satisfaction. If they had to run, they at least had a chance. "Now, Erik, please oblige the gentleman and remove your mask."

"Christine…" How could she take the Vicompte's side?

"Please, Erik." She turned towards him and laid a hand on the back of his neck. Her voice dropped to a sorrowing whisper. She looked sadly at what was left of Raoul. "He paid for his ticket, did he not? Let him see the show." They were Erik's words from a lifetime ago.

Phillippe watched the two of them. He was moved by the girl's tenderness towards her lover. His brother's last words came back to him. "…f_or the love of Christine." _Now he saw the attraction in this woman. She was otherworldly in form, face, voice and action – it was a pity she held no rank. Her strange whispered words made no sense to him, but they had an immediate effect on the man – Erik.

Erik lifted his eyes to stare deeply into the Vicompte's, who was suddenly uncomfortably sure that those eyes saw much more than his face. A long, thin, pale hand with delicate musician's fingers reached up and slowly, grudgingly removed the mask. Phillippe had two reactions to what he saw: his eyes widened and he stepped backwards. That was all. Years as an officer in the French army had taught him courage; he had already looked death in the face. Erik's face startled, but did not discompose, him. Once he was sure his voice would come out even and sure, he said his piece.

"Know that I am setting you free because my brother's last request was that you go free. You set the traps; I hold you responsible for his death and the death of the other man. Note that I do not call you a murderer. As the young mademoiselle said earlier, '_A man has a right to defend his home…' _A man also has the right to defend his own life and I am sure my brother's intent was to kill you. Nevertheless, he _was my brother_ and now he is dead by your device. I own this Opera House. Clearly, I cannot have my brother's killer living in it. You must leave. I give you a fortnight to gather what you can. Afterwards, I shall send a garrison of men into the depths to seek you out. They will have orders to kill you if they find you. Do you agree that this is a fair offer?" When he finished speaking, Phillippe felt a brief flash of fear. This was no ordinary man standing across from him. This man's eyes held a rage that threatened to burst forth with deadly result. Slowly, the fire died away; Erik would accept the offer.

"I would not know "fair", but I do know when I have no choice. I will be gone within a fortnight."

On an impulse, the Vicompte extended his hand. It was an irrational move by all appearances, but he could not dismiss the feeling that he was in the presence of a man greater than himself. After a long pause, Erik took the proffered hand.

Next, Phillippe turned to Christine. "You are an extraordinary young lady, though trouble seems drawn to you like filings to a magnet. The Opera Populaire is honored to have you. You are welcome to stay here, though…" he looked from her to the monstrous creature beside her, "I doubt that will be your choice. Know that you may return any time to rehearse, perform, visit or live. My brother would have wanted it that way. Adieu, mademoiselle, monsieur. I must go tend to my brother now."


	71. Guilt

Christine and Erik stood silent and watched as Phillippe joined the priest and carried his brother from the room. When the door closed, Christine locked it and leaned her forehead against it; savoring the cool, smooth wood against her hot skin. She closed her eyes and pressed her fists against the door until the beveled wood bit painfully into her knuckles. That physical pain was preferable to what lay behind her. If she turned around, she would have to see the blasted mirror, the glass sprayed across the floor, the dark stain on the reclining couch, and Erik. She needed more strength before she could face all that destruction and before she could begin to consider how Erik's life had been upended.

Long ago, when she was only a little girl, her Angel of Music had warned her never to let her social entanglements interfere with her music. Now her 'social entanglement' had cost Erik his home and very nearly taken his life. In her memory, she saw Raoul convulsing on the couch and tasted bile rising in the back of her throat.

Phillippe had charged Erik with responsibility for Raoul's death. Christine knew the truth. She was the murderer – not Erik. If only she'd had the courage to tell Raoul plainly that she was not interested in his suit long ago. If she'd done that, he might be laughing with some winsome countess's daughter behind her fan right now, instead of dead in his brother's arms.

Christine forced herself to acknowledge that she was the calm and untouched center this maelstrom swirled around. She had enjoyed Raoul's attentions, even if she had not liked the man, himself. She had never been plain with him, even though there was no question that she might marry him. She'd been too busy enjoying the attentions of a wealth, handsome young man.

Worse, she had exposed Erik's secrets by calling to him before it was time, knowing he would come. She had stayed with him long enough to cause concern to the entire opera house, twice. She had expected him to answer to her every whimper - and he had. This horrendous mess was entirely her fault.

At first, all Erik could do was fight to regain his breath. The confrontation with the Vicompte had gone better than he had imagined it could. He had come to the surface, stood before other people, and was still alive to recount the experience. All it had cost him was his home. Where he would go, what he would do: these were insignificant questions when held up next to the fact that he and Christine were still alive and relatively unharmed.

This thought directed his gaze to where she leaned heavily against the door, her eyes closed and her hands fisted. Her stance spoke of the heavy weight of grief and anger. He remembered with a blaze of proud joy the moment she claimed him as hers, saying out loud that she loved him in front of all those people. She wasn't ashamed of him as his mother had been; she did not hide her friendship with him as Leslie had. She stood by him throughout the entire ordeal, never wavering in her devotion.

Erik walked over and stood behind her. Countless times she had touched him tenderly to comfort him; now he wanted to comfort her and found himself hesitant. Never, in all the time since he had been revealed as a flesh-and-blood man, had he dared initiate physical contact. It felt like sacrilege to even consider laying his imperfect hands on her seraphic perfection. His hand hovered over her mussed curls for several long seconds before it finally descended in a loving caress. It was bliss to touch her, no matter the circumstances.

"Christine, are you…" he was not sure what he wanted to ask her. Of course she was not alright. She had just watched her suitor die an agonizing death in her parlor. But what else could he say?

She spoke softly and flatly without turning around or lifting her head

"I killed him, Erik, and I've betrayed you. How can you stand to touch me? You've lost everything, been driven out of your beautiful home, and it's my fault."

"_Your _fault? You set no traps, you did not summon your suitor to your 'rescue'." He laughed his gentle, rich laugh. "And I haven't lost everything. Unless the Vicompte was wrong."

"What?" She could not follow his logic.

"He was under the assumption that you would be leaving with me." Erik's smile deepened. He firmly turned her away from the door. "And I believe it was you who asked that I let you come with me, wherever I go, correct?"

"What good will that do us? I'll go with you, Angel, if you still want me, but where? Where will we live? What will we do for money? We could sell my father's violin. We could…maybe… find that ring and sell it. Other than that, I have nothing – I haven't even got a home or family to return to. And you…" Her voice trailed off. Erik had family still living. She had heard of the Vallieres; there were tales that they occasionally attended the opera. Erik could not return to them, though. Officially, he was dead. "You would probably find a place to make your own. If I came with you, I would be nothing but a burden and a bother."

Christine's questions were legitimate. If he left the opera, and she followed him, they would have to go somewhere – survive somehow. He would survive – he always did. But she had never known a life of want. No sooner had he begun to seriously consider these sobering questions, than he began to laugh secretively.

"Christine, I have something to show you. Come with me."

Taking her hand in his, he pulled her once more into the passageways. As they walked, he hummed excitedly to himself. Christine cast the occasional disbelieving glance in his direction. How could he be so happy? She flailed around in her mind, trying to think of some way the two of them could survive expulsion from the Opera Populaire. Without money, family, or friends outside the opera house, the picture looked very bleak to her. Erik was entirely unacquainted with the outside world; that was the only explanation for his levity. Or maybe the blood loss from his wound, the encounter with Raoul, and the confrontation with the police had completely unmoored his tenuous hold on reality.

With bubbling glee, Erik limped through the hallways, crossed the maze, and poled the boat across the lake. He helped Christine out, his eyes twinkling, and led her into his house, down the hallway, finally coming to a stop at the locked door.

"Wait here." As he walked jauntily into his bedroom, Christine could have sworn she heard him giggle.

"Erik, what is going on?" Her voice held just an edge of annoyance.

He reappeared smiling, waving an iron key under her nose.

"Go ahead, open it." He thrust the key into her hand and gestured to the door.


	72. Anywhere We Go

Christine furrowed her brow, unlocked the door, and opened it with an air of expectation. When her eyes finally registered what they were seeing, she whirled on Erik.

"What _is_ all this?" Her face and voice were a perfect jumble of conflicting emotions. Immediately, her eyes were caught by dozens of paintings – all of her. There was one for every year of her life since she had come to the Opera Populaire. Those that depicted the youngest Christine were rudimentary and two dimensional. They almost all depicted her father smiling benevolently in the background. The sight of his lean Scandinavian face nearly brought tears to her eyes. As she aged, the paintings also matured in style and sophistication. She recognized the moments Erik had captured – a rehearsal here, a birthday party there. Her eyes were caught and held by a nearly life-sized portrait in her Masquerade costume. The detail was exquisite; it was very much like looking in a mirror.

Next, she noticed the roses. Dried roses of every color hung upside down from the ceiling. _There must be hundreds, _she thought. _Hundreds of dead roses. Why? _And then she focused on the shelves. At first, she could not comprehend what she was seeing. There were stacks and stacks of bundles of paper filling the shelves. A moment's scrutiny revealed that the 'paper' was money. Without looking at the denominations, Christine guessed there was more than enough here for a small family to live lavishly for at least a lifetime.

She dragged her eyes back to Erik, who stood smiling warmly beside her. "Where did this come from?"

"Since I was seventeen – I suppose that would be eight years now – I've been collecting a salary of sorts from the managers. I improve their ticket sales and they give me a percentage of their profits. I don't know why I began asking for a salary. It just seemed…the thing to do, I suppose. Normal men earn incomes for their work, or am I wrong? I have never had a need for money, so I have simply set it aside. I've never even counted it."

"Then we are not lost. Erik, we'll be fine anywhere we go." She was smiling as broadly as he, now. "The…the paintings are beautiful – but why are they all of me?"

Erik looked down. His mask covered the hot flush that rose to his cheeks. "Once I had seen you, I never saw another thing beautiful enough to warrant the effort."

"And the roses?"

"For years I dreamed of giving them to you. After lessons, when you had lifted my spirit with your voice and your sweet presence, I often wished to give you a rose. I always brought one with me, but I never could bring myself to reveal that I was no angel. But they were _your_ roses, Christine, and I could never throw them away." He walked into the room and touched one of the roses with a gentle finger. "This is not what I brought you here to show you. Here…" he shifted a nearby pile of money as casually as if it had been a pile of dirty laundry. The leather-bound notebook beneath, he lifted as gently as a newborn child. "this is my greatest treasure." In trembling hands, he proffered the volume to Christine, who took it from him with a questioning look.

"May I open it?" This was the score he had been working on for so long. Curiosity burned in her thoughts, but she made no moves without his consent. Intuitively, she knew she was literally holding his heart in her hands.

He shook his head and took her hand. "Come with me." He led her to the organ and started the steam engine. This would be the last time he stoked the little bellows, the last time he would sit down to the organ he had constructed with so much care. Christine sympathetically watched him linger over every motion. It was hard to imagine the Phantom of the Opera without his Opera. How strange it would be to see him in the sunlight! Once she had craved the sight, but now she wondered if the gentle lantern-light did not suit him better.

"The score, please?" He had taken his place at the keyboard, staring down at it expressionlessly.

Christine untied the silk cord, opened the leather binder, then fussily set the composition on the rack. Her eyes widened as they roved across the first movement. The music leapt from the page, playing thunderously in her mind before his fingers ever touched the keyboard.

Erik turned to her and smiled. He saw her expression and knew that she was already under the spell of his greatest work. Without the smallest twinge of self-consciousness, the Angel of Music removed his hat, mask, and cloak. He would need freedom of movement to play perfectly.

"I finished this only last night. You will not, I think, need any rehearsal. My Angel knew her part long before it was written." He set the stops deftly. A deep breath later, his fingers descended on the keys, and the world folded in around them.

The first notes were clear, light, and high. It was the Voice of young Christine, singing her first audition before the managers. Erik had never forgotten how those crystalline notes had captured him and held him in awe. His opera was a thinly veiled telling of his own love story. In it, an angel in the guise of a human woman must save a lost soul otherwise doomed to Hell. With his incredible range and perfect vocal flexibility, Erik sang every part to perfection. Every part but Christine's. Even during composition, he had not dared to let her words touch his lips.

Christine felt herself slip inexorably into the dream Erik had created. This music was pure and unfettered; it usurped her rational mind, forcing her to operate purely on emotion. He was correct in assuming that she would know her part without rehearsal. The words and notes were natural and right. Any other singer would have struggled with the simplest aria; Christine sang each as easily as speaking. The music caught her tightly in the fantasy – she was an angel. She was _his _Angel. With love and tenderness, she rescued Erik from the darkness which threatened to consume him. The story neared its end. Erik took his hands from the keys and sat back. The page in the composition book was blank, but their music continued.

He stood and joined her where she stood, singing in a delirium. Their voices rose together, perfectly entwined, perfectly complimenting one another in harmony and ardor. The words were not written anywhere – they simply came, as natural and sweet as honey. After awhile, words gave way to wordless vocalization as the two musicians spoke to each other in a language closer to the heart than Italian or French.

The space between them shrank, though it seemed that neither of them moved. On a cloud, her arms floated up to twine around his waist and neck as her song drifted into a peaceful silence. His song continued, strengthening and deepening. He still sang of love, but now there was a satiny darkness that beckoned and whispered of pleasures more earthy and less ethereal. His voice was not that of the Opera Ghost, or the Angel of Music, or even of the sweet, shy Erik she had come to love. It was the voice of the man he could have been; it was the voice of the man he _would be_ now that he was free of his past and his self-loathing - now that he was loved.

Her rational mind threw forth a single giddy thought –_Oh my, I'm being seduced! ­_– and she succumbed.

Erik brought his lips to hers as his final note echoed around them. His subterranean wonderland was their church. His music was their wedding ceremony. Their soaring voices spoke vows more sacred than any ritual. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the parlor where he tenderly set her down on the soft, thick rug in front of the fireplace without breaking their embrace.

As he carried her, she was unbuttoning his shirt, unmindful of how "improper" it was that she should undress him. She understood as well as he did that they were married now in the church that mattered most to both of them. His hands were on the laces of her bodice when he paused with a hint of trepidation.

"This is forever, Christine. Are you sure I am the man you want?"

She just nodded and slid his shirt from his shoulders. He was a man nurtured entirely on the melodramatic romance of opera and symphony music. She could not possibly hope that his sweet romanticism would survive the realities of married life; she would have to bask in his poetic tenderness while it lasted.

"My Angel," she murmured, and quelled any further discussion by stopping his mouth with hers.


	73. Epilogue: Happily Ever After

In two short weeks, Erik and Christine tore down the lives they had built so carefully. Into hired wagons they loaded furniture, portraits, musical scores, and musical instruments. In a respectful silence, Christine helped Erik take apart, re-label and store his precious pipe organ. Next to its dismantled body, Christine laid her father's violin. Another wagon was devoted to the bundles containing Erik's wealth. A brief accounting by the ever-useful Mme. Giry revealed that it was indeed enough to satisfy their fancies for years to come.

Once their few belongings were safely stowed, Erik turned his mind to his traps. Phillippe had promised to send men into the foundations searching for him. If he left these traps in place, some of those men would lose their lives. The Erik of only a year before would have let the fools die in their unjust mission; now, he felt a need to protect their lives – if only to keep their blood from his hands. He had not been working long before he realized that he would never disable every trap before his time ran out. Instead, he began marking dangerous areas with red paint. It would have to suffice.

While Erik worked on his traps, Christine made one final trip up into the Opera Populaire. There were people to whom she needed to say good-bye. Though Mme Giry and Meg were tearful and saddened by her choice to leave, they knew she would keep in contact. There would be letters and visits. Meg embraced her friend tightly before arching a delicate eyebrow. "Mon amie, I do not pretend to understand your choice, but I wish you all the happiness in the world."

Christine returned the kisses and reassured her in a voice still sweet, but matured with care and pain. "For the first time in my life, I am happy- truly happy. You will understand someday, Meg. When we return to the opera, and you hear…you will understand."

The completely inconsolable one was M. Reyeurre. The rumor among patrons of the fine arts was that there was no soprano on the Continent the equal of La Daae. M Reyeurre knew the truth: there was no soprano in the known world whose voice even approached the young woman's perfect instrument. Further, he knew that there were no other divas whose teachers had so carefully cultivated a gentle nature and sweet disposition. Having been spoiled by working with the sweet-tempered girl and her gentle father, Reyeurre blanched at the prospect of returning to the run-of-the mill flock of temperamental Prima Donnas.

When Christine came to him and told him her intention to leave with the Opera Ghost, the poor man had to take a seat. No matter the managers' opinion of the Phantom, M Reyeurre loved him. The Ghost frequently enforced M. Reyeurre's preference regarding the hiring and firing of musicians. M. le Fantome had no politics – only a finely developed ear. The conductor was very aware of how much the Ghost's interference had improved his orchestra. Now, that protection would leave, along with the most beautiful coloratura voice he'd ever had the pleasure to hear.

Christine understood his dilemma and pitied the man. She patted his shoulder sympathetically and pulled a leather-bound notebook from her satchel.

"You may not keep this, but you may look through it. My fiancé, Erik, and I would like to make a gift to you of a performance of this work. You have always been kind to me, and he has admired you for many years." She smiled as he flushed with pleasure at the compliments. "We cannot do this for you now, but when we can, we will send word." She stood quietly to one side and watched him leaf through Erik's masterpiece.

Many minutes later, he looked up at her with shining eyes. "This will haunt me until I have heard from you; it will play in my dreams every night. Please send word soon."

Christine gently tugged the score from his resisting hands and nodded. "We are as eager as you are to see this performed. It will not be long." She turned to leave, but stopped in the doorway. "Monsieur, when you hear Erik sing, I am afraid you will forget me." She curtsied and left before he could argue.

Christine and Erik fled Paris soon thereafter and bought an expanse of land in Arles where they could live in peace. With an almost unlimited supply of funds, Erik designed and built a home perfect for them. At Christine's demure request, he included additional bedrooms beside the acoustically perfect music room. No longer confined to a dungeon, he played freely with light and space. The result was a breathtaking work of art.

As Christine promised, their lives were very musical. Without access to the Opera Populaire's musical library and its frequent updates, it was all _their own_ music. Christine bloomed in the rambling chateau in the countryside. She learned to transcribe the music in her head onto paper. She learned to play the piano and the violin. Erik found himself wincing less and smiling more often when she sat down to compose. Before long, they were both neglecting meals and sleep in favor of the music.

When the furor had died away and letters from les dames Giry indicated that the Phantom of the Opera was no longer a fashionable topic of gossip, Christine and Erik returned to the Opera Populaire as promised. The cast and staff whispered about the return of the Opera Ghost, but once it was made clear that any dissension would lead quickly to unemployment the whispers stopped. Erik kept to himself with the exception of rehearsals and private audiences with a star-struck Monsieur Reyeurre, who constantly grasped and shook his hand. He knew that his reputation preceded him and he had little desire to terrify anyone.

Because Erik was both directing and performing, he soon had every member of the cast and crew firmly in thrall. After driving them mercilessly for a month, his dream was realized. _Le Prisonnier Libre _dazzled international audiences for one full week. With Christine and Erik in the leads, there was little observers could do but sit quietly and breathe lightly. In newspaper reviews, there was no mention of a mask.

After the production, the triumphant couple returned to their villa. Some frigid hearts may insist that there are no happily-ever-afters. For those who have never lost everything only to find it again in the music of another, there may not be. For Erik and Christine, though, there was only perfect harmony.

You may have heard a different tale from the one I have told here; a story of jealousy, hate, death, and betrayal: a story which turns its face from true beauty to worship the glitz and glitter of surface appearance. It is a story more in keeping with the "realistic" expectations of a shallow world. It is a story that kept the prying public eye away from my great-grandparents for many golden years.

And yes, they did live happily ever after.


End file.
